


Deceitful Denouncements

by starrysummernights



Series: As the Summer Rains Fall [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Greg Lestrade, Alpha John Watson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, Heartbreak, Idiots in Love, Infidelity, Love Triangles, M/M, Omega Mycroft Holmes, Omega Sherlock, Omega Sherlock Holmes, Omega Verse, Or Is It?, Teen Angst, Teen John Watson, Teen Sherlock, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-02-23 21:30:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18710308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrysummernights/pseuds/starrysummernights
Summary: 4 years have passed since John and Sherlock were betrothed. They've grown closer and formed a solid friendship. John may not be in love with Sherlock but Sherlock is still content (or so he tells himself) knowing that he is cared for and is John's closest friend and companion...until the Scottish delegation arrives in Northumbria.And Sherlock is introduced to James Sholto.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know I haven't finished my other story but, seeing as it is almost completed and this already was, oops. Here we go.
> 
> Sherlock is 15, John is 19. Mycroft is 23-24 years old and Greg is in his 30s.

“I’ve discovered the most amazing thing: your bed, no matter how expensive and cozy it is, far better than my humble little beggar’s cot down in the barracks, is the most miserable place when you’re not in it with me.”

Mycroft lifted his head from the mess of paperwork littering his desk and gave Greg a wan smile in the light of the candles which were almost burned out. “Gregory.”

Pure emotion squeezed at Greg’s chest and he smiled back. “Hullo, love.”

It amazed Greg the way Mycroft still reacted to the term of endearment. Greg must’ve said it to him hundreds- thousands- of times over the last few years, but Mycroft remained just as affected as if it were the first time.

Mycroft dipped his eyes, a light pink blush staining the tips of his ears, and awkwardly fiddled with his pen as if he didn’t know how to respond, as if he thought Greg were taking the piss and would scoff at any second. Greg sighed, shaking his head, hopelessly in love with the ridiculous man in front of him.

“Not that I’m not pleased to see you, but what are you doing here?” Mycroft finally asked, choosing to change the subject. Greg raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

“What am _I_ doing here? What are _you_ doing here?” He countered. “It’s past midnight. I thought we had scheduled a rendezvous. Imagine how wounded I was then when the clock struck and I was still alone in your room, all laid out in your bed the way I know you like best.”

“I always like you in my bed, no matter the way.” Mycroft offered shyly, and Greg gave him a wicked grin in return.

“Yeah, but this time I was naked.”

“ _Gregory_.” The soft rebuke was expected. Equally expected was the slight shift in Mycroft’s posture, suddenly tense and angled towards Greg, the only visible sign of Mycroft’s arousal.

Greg licked his lips, stepping closer to Mycroft’s desk, and Mycroft watched him with shadowed eyes. “It’s why I came looking for you. I had to make sure you weren’t stepping out on me with another Alpha.”

“A very likely event.” Mycroft’s caustic wit soothed Greg. Of course, he was putting on for the sake of being dramatic: he hadn’t _really_ thought the Omega was stepping out on him. But his pride was still rather wounded. To have lain naked in Mycroft’s bed the better part of two hours and not been appreciated for it, then to seek Mycroft out and find that having sex with him had rated second to paperwork-

Greg wrinkled his nose. An Alpha could only take so much.

“I know that you wouldn’t go to someone else.” Greg grinned, wiggling his eyebrows. “I’m more than Alpha enough for you.”

“You’re too much.” Mycroft said repressively, turning back to his papers. “Most days I don’t know what to do with you.”

“Then bond with me. And you can spend the rest of our lives figuring it out.”

Greg wish he’d kept his mouth shut. Mycroft’s posture shifted again, this time turning away from Greg and hunching forward over his desk, his lovely face suddenly blank and cool.

“Please, Gregory. I do not wish to fight with you tonight.”

Greg nodded, trying to think of a way to salvage the situation. He didn’t want to fight either.

But he also wanted to keep Mycroft as his for the rest of their lives. He wanted to bond with him- an impossible feat as Mycroft had told him over and over and over. Bonding was risky. They could get caught and their relationship exposed.

Bonding could potentially lead to the collapse of the entire kingdom, according to Mycroft, and while Greg thought the Omega was being overdramatic, he knew that if they did bond and if they were exposed, the line of succession would be thrown into chaos. There’d be backbiting and accusations. Mycroft and Greg could be forcibly separated, and Greg even killed, if Queen Holmes so desired.

Greg had absolutely no doubt that she would so desire.

And once Greg was dead, that left their bond equally so…which meant Mycroft would be an exposed and unprotected Omega, next in line for the throne, and be married off to whatever Alpha his mother chose. Sherlock would no longer be the heir and so his betrothal to John Watson would be at an end. John would return to Scotland and be married whichever way his father wished and Sherlock would also be married to another Alpha in some other Court, shipped out of the country and away from his family.

Greg didn’t want any of that to happen. Ever.

But he also wanted…he couldn’t help it…he wanted _Mycroft_. Alphas and Omega weren’t meant to live like this, close but separated. He thought they could bond and keep it a secret. They’d _already_ kept their entire relationship a secret the last four years. Mycroft _already_ covered his scent glands with wax patches every day and his shirt collars were high enough to conceal a bondbite. Greg shared each of Mycroft’s heats. Not much- if anything- would have to change.

But ever since the first night Greg brought it up, expecting Mycroft to be pleased and excited, if a little hesitant, just to have all his hopes thoroughly crushed, Mycroft never wanted to discuss the issue. He was prone to snapping at Greg whenever he mentioned bonding. He felt there was nothing more to say. Greg supposed there wasn’t.

He sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair as if he could somehow get rid of those thoughts. He wished he hadn’t brought it up. He focused on what he’d originally came to Mycroft’s study for.

“It’s late, sweetheart. What are you still doing here?”

“The register of names for the delegation from Scotland arrived just before dinner.” Mycroft indicated the list in front of him. He was still tense, as if waiting for Greg to start an argument. “I wanted to review them and compose a reply so I wouldn’t have to do so tomorrow.”

“Mm.” It was a long list. Greg peered over Mycroft’s shoulder and read the names, picking out a person he vaguely knew here or there. The sheet was covered in the names of the soldiers the delegation wanted to bring, which had to be approved by Mycroft. Otherwise it would be considered an act of war. It was larger than what they needed, and Greg knew Mycroft would probably only approve half. That didn’t explain why he was still in his study at gone 1 in the morning, though.

“What’s wrong?” Greg hesitantly ran his fingertips over the nape of Mycroft’s neck, heartened when the Omega didn’t twitch away but sighed and leaned into the caress, letting Greg know he was forgiven for his earlier faux pas.

“This isn’t the list that disturbs me.” Mycroft shifted the papers around and brought out another. There were fewer names on this list and it comprised the lesser members of the royal family and their entourage who would be visiting Northumbria to see for themselves the rumored wealth and prosperity, and ascertain how their Princeling was fairing in his betrothed’s Court.

Greg scanned the names, all of whom he knew either by reputation or sight. He didn’t see anyone who-

“Wait.” He leaned forward, staring at the name sitting innocuously in the middle of the list. “Isn’t that…?”

“Yes.”

Thoughts went off like small explosions in Greg’s mind. He gawped at the name, everything he knew about the particular male Omega running through his head. He reeled. He couldn’t believe the audacity. The utter cheek. To include him in the Scottish delegation was a calculated insult to the Holmes family.

“What in the gods names were they thinking?”

Wordlessly, Mycroft pointed to the signature at the bottom of the page. In neat, curving lines was the name of the person who had arranged and authorized the Scottish delegation and personally chosen the members:

_**Graham Lennox, Duke of Lennox** _

Greg’s face darkened with anger. “Bastard.”

“Quite.” Mycroft tossed the list onto his desk and slumped back, rubbing at his tired eyes.

“He did this on purpose.” Greg seethed. “Lennox chose _him_ just to be an arsehole.”

“I know.”

Greg paced the length of the room, unable to stay still, his hands clenched into fists. “Lennox did this on purpose. After what John did to Lennox- how he humiliated him in front of everyone- he just wants to cause trouble. You can’t let this happen, Mycroft.”

“I have no valid reason to prevent him. I’ll tell them they can’t bring so many soldiers. There’s no need for them to have over 500. Even half that is excessive. But I cannot think of an acceptable reason why James Sholto cannot travel with the delegation and stay in Northumbria.”

“You know the sodding reason why he can’t!”

“Yes, but that is not the sort of thing one can put in a public missive to the Scottish royalty.”

“There has to be something.” Greg cast about. “Something you can say so he won’t visit…”

“What exactly do you suggest I do? James Sholto is a member of the Scottish nobility. His father is a minor Earl and Sholto himself is a baron. Nothing of much consequence and the family’s finances are in shambles but…” Mycroft waved his hand. “That’s of no significance. Sholto was poor before John left Scotland and John still saw fit to dally with him. Regularly.”

“John wasn’t in a much better position himself back then.”

“No, he wasn’t.” Mycroft agreed. “John may’ve been a Prince, but his father kept him severely disadvantaged. That proves my point, though, and makes the situation even more severe: John was never attracted to Sholto’s _money_.”

His words hung heavy in the air, the implications foremost on both their minds. Greg bit his lip, debating over his next question.

“Has Sholto…since John moved to Northumbria…has he…?”

“There have been rumors of multiple affairs. As of yet, his father has not arranged a marriage for him, and since his unfortunate accident two summers ago, there are no potential bond mates queuing up.”

“What do you mean?”

“No one wants a disfigured Omega as a mate.” Mycroft explained, and while his assessment was ruthless, Greg could hear the compassion under the layers of agitated concern over the turmoil Sholto’s visit would bring to the Northumbrian Court.

After all, it wasn’t every day the former paramour of the future Northumbrian king paid a visit.

“Even if Sholto can’t be prevented from coming…John wouldn’t involve himself in an affair with him.” Greg finally said, and this time it was Mycroft’s turn to raise a disbelieving brow.

“Wouldn’t he?”

“No. John cares for Sherlock. He wouldn’t sleep with Sholto right under Sherlock’s nose.”

“Perhaps not. But if John thinks he can get away with it, if he thinks he can hide it, and that Sherlock either won’t notice or won’t understand what is taking place….” Mycroft trailed off, shrugging. Greg shook his head in mute denial, but inwardly he knew that everything Mycroft said made sense.

John had been a member of the Northumbrian Court for almost four years now. In that time, he’d never taken a lover, or had a romantic affair, or been linked to an Omega. There hadn’t been so much as a whisper of illicit dalliances.

Which was odd.

John was a 19 year-old Alpha, in the prime of his adolescence, dashing and handsome and active and fit…with a title to boot. He was a catch for any Omega.

But John was entirely faithful to Sherlock.

It was a common sight around the palace to see John and Sherlock together. They were inseparable. Their general mischief turned the palace upside down and topsy turvy and Greg struggled to remember a time before John, a time when there had been peace and quiet and moderation to Sherlock’s outlandish schemes because John encouraged each and every one of Sherlock’s idiosyncrasies and was his perpetual partner in crime.

Sherlock was clearly head over heels in love with John, but it was very obvious (at least to Greg) that John didn’t return his feelings. He cared for Sherlock, of course, but there was no _particular_ regard to be seen in John's manners or address. It worried Greg- and Mycroft as well even if he wouldn't admit it- but they had to be content with knowing that John was wholly devoted to Sherlock. After all, there were worse things than being _best friends_ with one's future spouse.

They spent every waking moment together. They trained with swords first thing in the morning before taking breakfast together in a private dining nook overlooking the gardens. John brought Sherlock to any meetings he had and then spent the rest of the morning with Sherlock while the little Omega attended his lessons. Sherlock’s instructors complained that the Alpha was a distracting influence rather than the steadying effect which was needed for their unruly pupil, and that the two boys giggled their way through the afternoon. Mycroft could only do so much and there was no one else to curb them because the tutors quailed at the idea of going to the Queen herself over the matter. Sherlock had gone through eight tutors in the last two years alone.

They read and went horseback riding, exercised, played games, and their evenings were spent together as well. Always, at the end of the night, they would say goodnight and Sherlock would extend his wrist for John to scent at in a gesture that had became a years-long tradition between them. The Court sighed over them. Queen Holmes said their relationship made her feel young again. Even Mycroft looked a little less severe (he had never warmed to the sight of John actually touching his little brother) when he saw how happy Sherlock was as he veritably floated down the hallway to his bedroom after the token scenting.

But that was where their relationship ended.

Their interactions were all conducted in public, and chastely. At 15, Sherlock was still underage. He wouldn’t be of age for three more years and John kept a perceptible distance from him. While Greg had caught Sherlock gazing moodily after the older Alpha when John wasn’t looking, admiring and shy, Greg had never seen John so much as glance at Sherlock in a way that wasn’t purely platonic.

John may not be in love with Sherlock, but that didn’t mean…it wasn’t a given that if James Sholto came to Northumbria…if John saw the Omega he’d once loved…the one with whom he’d shared many heats…the Omega that, if things had turned out differently, it was rumored John may have one day married…

“Isn’t there something you can do?” Greg asked, heart sinking when Mycroft shook his head.

“There’s nothing I can do to prevent Sholto’s coming.” Mycroft pushed away from his desk, abandoning the papers to be dealt with in the morning. “I’ve wracked my mind the last few hours thinking of an excuse I could give…but there isn’t one. James Sholto will arrive with the delegation in two months’ time and we must all make the best of it. I suppose.”

“Should you warn Sherlock?”

“I don’t see the point in causing him unnecessary pain. John’s relationship with Sholto took place four years ago, before he was betrothed to Sherlock. Things change in that amount of time. Although,” He gave Greg a tired smile, reaching for him and Greg enfolded him in a hug, smiling when he felt the Omega relax against him with a sigh, “some things stay the same…Like how I love you.”

Greg kissed the top of Mycroft’s head, unable to stop the grin spreading across his face. “I don’t think things stay the same.” He tipped Mycroft’s face up so he could bestow a light kiss against his lips. “I love you now more than I did five years ago. And if I’m lucky enough to have you for another five, I’ll just keep falling more in love with you.”

Mycroft studied Greg, eyes darting between each of his own as if searching for the lie in his words, until finally, he dropped his gaze and stepped away, pulling Greg gently towards the door.

“Take me to bed, Gregory.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep in mind that nothing will happen between Sherlock and John until Sherlock is of age. That being said, Sherlock is now a 15-year-old boy and has evolving feelings towards John. I'm going to mention these feelings, in all their forms.

In the Northumbrian capitol of Marseille, most of the nobility didn’t bother to rise before noon unless the Queen herself commanded it. They spent each evening in debauchery, with excesses of food and wine and enough Alphas and Omegas for everyone to be satisfied. There were events crammed together, one right after another, each more outrageous than the next, and by the time most of the nobility stumbled back to their own houses, the sun was just breaking over the eastern sky.

Meetings were postponed. Breakfast was served fashionably late. It was _de rigueur_ to have a hangover restorative instead a morning cup of tea. No one left their beds before noon. If someone had to be out in the city, a well-known courtesy was to not look too closely at anyone, as those who’d stayed too late at their lover’s house navigated the streets. It was a gross kind of behavior to appear curious but covert glances were perfectly acceptable. Friends got together and sat around swapping gossip, piecing together what they could remember from the previous evening, and speculating about the upcoming night’s dissolution. Hours were spent getting ready, messages sent back and forth to arrange clandestine meetings or issue challenges, and no one knew what could happen- but everyone was hoping for something scandalous.

The parties of the Marseille nobility were legendary.

Of course, that was all before Prince John Watson came to Northumbria and was betrothed to the Omega Crown Prince Sherlock Holmes.

There were still parties but now, at least three days a week, most of the nobility were washed and dressed and snatching a quick breakfast at a reasonable hour. They congregated in the streets, looking very fashionable, before making their way up to the castle to observe the most coveted of entertainments: Prince John.

Barring any unforeseen circumstances, the Alpha would one day be King of Northumbria. That was enough to get people to the castle hoping to catch a glimpse of him, but it didn’t explain the reason why so many of the nobility flocked through the gates each morning. It had nothing to do with John’s title or his rank or a selfless desire to prove themselves loyal to their future monarch.

The reason so many of the nobility traveled to the castle each morning was because Prince John was _hot_.

* * *

 

Northumbrian summers could be miserable. The temperatures climbed high before the sun rose, and at half past eight in the morning, the air was heavy, as thick as soup. The relentless sun beat down on the men of the Prince’s Guard who were assembled in the training yard to practice sparring.

Their swords clack-clack-clacked together, sometimes broken by a shout or a derisive comment when their opponent messed up. The men were dressed informally, in loose cotton tunics and trousers, but a few had already stripped off their sweat-soaked tunics and tossed them aside, letting a soft breeze cool the sweat from their bodies. It was a delicious exhibition of Alpha male flesh and the nobility were clustered around the perimeter of the training yard, gawking. Some had brought chairs or blankets to spread on the grass and make themselves comfortable. Others held breakfast pastries and cups of tea in their hands. They all whispered to each other, jostling for a better spot, and shamelessly pointed out prime specimens to their friends.

“That one! That one there! Look at his arse-“

“Oh, look! Watch’em move!”

“Look at the front of his trousers. Look at that bulge-!”

“They’re so talented.”

“I think the word you were looking for is _endowed_.”

“They didn’t make’em like that back in my day.” An older Omega remarked, brazenly watching the Prince’s Guard through a pair of opera glasses.

“Back in your day, Captain Lestrade wasn’t the commander.” Her young ward teased. She was impatiently waiting her turn with the opera glasses. “Now he’s a pretty piece of flesh-“

Further down the fence, a pretty Omega sighed and leaned against the fence, her eyes fixed on Captain Lestrade. “I wouldn’t say no to Captain Lestrade on a cold night…or any night, really…”

“You’re already bonded.” Her friend reminded her. She hadn’t wanted to come to the training yard. In her opinion, the whole thing was ridiculous and she was embarrassed to even be there. “You shouldn’t be looking at other Alphas.”

“Oh, there’s no harm in looking, Bea...it’s not like I’ll do anything.” The Omega lowered her voice. “Even if I want to…”

“Imagine.” An Omega male whispered to his friend. “Prince John. Just _imagine_ …”

Someone squealed and grabbed at their friend’s arm. “There’s the Prince!”

“Where?”

“There! Right there!” They pointed, surging onto their tiptoes. “Beside the dark-skinned Guard- no, no, the other one!”

People craned their necks to see. An Alpha narrowed her eyes, watching Prince John move and wondered how she would look with more muscles. Not that she felt threatened by John. Of course not. She was Alpha enough. But there was something pleasing about the way John’s arms looked. She could look like that, if she tried…

“Oh, I see him!” A little boy cried, sat atop his Alpha mother’s shoulders. “I see the Prince! Mummy, can I have a sword?”

“Maybe next year, sweetheart.”

“I wanna be just like the Prince.” The little boy enthused and his mother patted his knee, looking proud.

A blonde-haired male Omega gave a longing sigh. “ _Ohhh_ , it’s the Prince…Ohh, good gods _above_ …”

The Omega’s friends pretended to fan him, dissolving into shrieks and giggles when the Omega actually pretended to swoon.

“I do believe you’re drooling, my dear.” An Alpha with an arrogant sneer said, leaning down to whisper to his newly bonded mate. They’d gotten married just last week and this was the first time the Omega had been allowed out in public. The Omega’s bond bite was still healing, a ragged wound at the base of his neck. The Alpha either didn’t notice or didn’t care when the young man minutely shrank away from him. “If I didn’t know how much you enjoyed my knot, I think I’d be jealous.”

“Please, don’t speak like that here.” The young Omega entreated, darting his eyes around to make sure no one had heard. “Anyone could hear you.”

“Maybe I want them to hear me. Maybe I want them to know what a slut you are for me, and how lovely you sound when you scream while I’m fucking you…” The Alpha touched the bond bite, running his fingers over it in a proprietary gesture, and the young Omega shuddered, revulsion twisting his lips at the memory of his wedding-night heat. Each subsequent night when his Alpha had taken him had been no better. He never wanted the Alpha to touch him again. It took all of his self-control to keep from jerking away from him.

“Please. I am not drooling and I don’t care for this display. I d-don’t want any Alpha…” He added hastily, “but _you_ , of course…”

“This is the place to be. Anyone who is anyone is here. But if you don’t appreciate the entertainment, maybe I won’t bring you again. I’ll just keep you in our rooms, lock away all your clothes, and let you ride my cock for your amusement. That sounds better, eh?”

The young man dipped his eyes. He should’ve said that he enjoyed the display, he belatedly realized…but then his Alpha would’ve used it as an excuse to assert his claim. A hollow pit opened in the Omega’s stomach as he realized he was in a no-win situation. This was his life now. He wanted to go home- but the dowry had already been paid and he knew his father would send him back to his Alpha’s house if he ran away.

“Whatever you wish, Edmund…” He softly replied, and let his Alpha, with a self-satisfied swagger, escort him from the training yard.

Further away, there was a group of people debating the merits of Prince John’s muscles and how he could use them to the best effect during a heat. One of the Omega’s was graphically describing a particular sexual position they thought John could perform. Everyone was hanging on her every word. One of the Alpha’s was taking notes.

Worked up from watching the soldiers fight, a petite female Omega pulled her Alpha away from the training yard and into the deserted barracks, goading the Alpha into fucking her quickly in an empty room, lifting her skirts and muffling her cries against her forearm.

Outside again, a curly-haired woman sighed and took a sip of tea, gazing at John over the rim of her cup. “Prince John is just so handsome. It almost makes me wish I weren’t a Beta. He would a solicitous lover.”

“How would you know?” Her Omega friend snapped. “They say he’s staying chaste to honor his vows to Prince Sherlock. Apparently Prince John hasn’t had anyone since he came to Northumbria.”

“ _No_!”

“ _Yes_!”

“Aw. That’s sweet.”

“It’s stupid.” The Omega said scornfully. “It’s been four years. They won’t be married for another three. I know that personally, I couldn’t go four years without a good rogering. Much less seven years.”

The curly-haired woman sniggered. “Poor Prince John. He must be pent up. No wonder he practices with swords every morning if he’s got nothing better to keep him in bed.”

The Omega started giggling too. “I would gladly volunteer for Prince John to work out any and all sexual frustrations on. I’d take his knot as many times as he wanted to give it to me.”

“After four years going without, I think you’d be half-dead by the end.”

“There are worse ways to go.” The Omega replied and the two of them collapsed into giggles again.

“Prince John is wasted on him.” Someone else huffed. They and their groups of friends stared over at Prince Sherlock where he sat apart from everyone, reading a book. They judged the 15-year-old with established scorn. “Look at him! All of these Alphas in their trousers- his future husband even!- and what does he do? He reads a book!”

“He’s still so young. He hasn’t even had a heat yet.”

“And isn’t that odd? He’s fifteen-years-old. He should’ve had a heat by now…”

“Maybe he won’t have a heat.” One of them said dramatically. “Maybe there’s something _wrong_ with him.”

“That’s what my mum said. It’s what everyone’s saying.”

“If he doesn’t have a heat, then the betrothal with Scotland is over. Prince John may be willing to hang around waiting for 7 years, but he won’t stay and marry a defective Omega.”

“Maybe Prince Sherlock’s already had a heat.” One of them whispered, and her friends drew closer to hear what she had to say. “Maybe he’s had a heat…and Prince John exercised his marital rights, as it were…and now Prince Sherlock’s preggers…”

“No!”

“Yes! Doesn’t it make sense?”

“Prince Sherlock isn’t of age-“

“What would that matter to an Alpha? My Alpha married me before I was fifteen. Lots of Alpha’s do. Maybe Prince John’s the same way.”

They all fell silent, watching Prince John spar with Captain Lestrade, each imagining John having sex with different people. A few of them eyed Sherlock’s trim stomach with interest.

“Well. Who knows? Time will tell. But if Prince Sherlock’s already been had by his Alpha, all I can say is…Prince Sherlock is one lucky little Omega.”

* * *

 

Sherlock was the unluckiest Omega ever.

He sat on a bench in the cool shade of the barracks, a book held up in front of his face, turning the pages at regular intervals. He pretended to be engrossed…but a careful observer would’ve noticed that his eyes were slightly _too_ far to the right of the book to actually be looking at it.

Sherlock stealthily watched John as the Alpha grinned at Captain Lestrade, blinking sweat out of his eyes and tossing his head to fling away any stray droplets. The two men came together, their swords flashing in a complicated series of patterns, and John advanced on Lestrade as the older man fell back. One of John’s arms extended behind him for balance, the other swung his sword, directing it with precision.

Sherlock turned a page in his book.

His eyes skimmed along John’s arms, taking in the toned muscles visible beneath his tanned skin, watching them flex as he wielded his sword. Sherlock took an unsteady breath. He stared at the expanse of John’s naked chest, bared to the world. Well-defined pectorals. Smooth, dusky-colored nipples. Flat stomach. A trail of hair beginning at his navel and disappearing into the waistband of his trousers-

Captain Lestrade gave a cry of triumph and John’s sword went flying. The sound of his shout echoed in the yard and some of the Guard stopped what they were doing to see what had happened- and paid for it when their opponent took the opportunity to disarm them. There was impromptu, scattered applause from the assembled crowd of nobles. John ruefully picked up his sword, shaking more sweat out of his eyes, and he and Captain Lestrade consulted, the Captain going through the motions with John of what had just happened. He stood behind John, directing his arm in the proper arc and twist, and John followed the movement, his face serious, absorbing everything Lestrade taught him. John always sparred with Lestrade every morning before he practiced with Sherlock. These were advanced techniques and Sherlock wasn’t on that level yet. He would be one day, though. He was determined.

“Again.” John’s voice carried across the yard. He and Lestrade faced off, the other fighters giving them plenty of room. Some even lowered their weapons and gave their commander and future monarch their full attention.

John and Lestrade didn’t seem aware that they were the center of attention. They crossed swords. There was a breathless pause. All eyes were trained on them. Time itself seemed to slow, waiting to see what would happen.

Lestrade suddenly tensed, raising his sword in a movement almost too fast to follow- and the fight was on.

Sherlock turned another page in his book.

John fought like poetry, fully in command of every motion of his body. He was graceful but deadly. The muscles in his back tightened in a delicious manner, rippling, before John’s waist narrowed, tapering down to his arse. Sherlock wondered what those muscles would feel like beneath his fingertips-

Sherlock looked down at his book. His cheeks heated at the impropriety of his thoughts. What would John think if he knew what Sherlock was thinking? Sherlock imagined that John would be appalled because John thought Sherlock was totally ignorant of…well…everything.

But the problem was that Sherlock knew a lot more than everyone thought he did.

Sherlock was a born and bred royal Omega. He’d been sheltered all his life…but he knew where the naughty books in the castle library were kept- the books showing all sorts of graphic depictions of Alphas and Omegas engaging in sexual relations. Sherlock also knew that if he snuck down to the library after midnight to look at the books, no one would catch him at it. He had snuck down to the library after midnight no fewer than ten times in the last month alone. Sherlock knew the difference between Alphas and Omegas. He knew that during a heat an Alpha put their you-know-what in an Omega’s you-know-where and together they did you-know-what which resulted in a baby.

He knew what it meant when Mycroft hung one of his slippers on the outside of the door which connected their rooms. Sherlock really, really, really wished that he didn’t know. It made it very difficult to face Captain Lestrade the next morning over the breakfast table. Sherlock knew what it was that Captain Lestrade and Mycroft did in the privacy of Mycroft’s bedroom and Sherlock thought it was disgusting.

Sherlock knew that he and John would be married in 3 more years. He knew that on their wedding night John would put his you-know-what in Sherlock’s you-know-where and together they would do you-know-what which would result in a baby, an heir for the kingdom. Sherlock spent a lot of time thinking of what you-know-what would feel like and how John would act and how Sherlock himself would be expected to act and whether or not he’d be any good at it. Sherlock had read every single book on the subject that he could find in the library but he still didn’t feel prepared. He didn’t think he could ever do the things in those books to John without dying of mortification.

Sherlock raised his eyes from his book to where John and Captain Lestrade were sparring, their weapons flashing in the sun. He stared at John, letting his eyes glaze over as his thoughts ran wild, recalling every detail he’d read from those books about Alphas and Omegas and what heat sex could feel like and how pleasurable the Alpha could make things for their Omega- then jerked his eyes back to his book.

Sherlock knew that Mummy and Mycroft held secret meetings about him every second Tuesday in the month, sequestering themselves in the second floor drawing room in the west wing, adjacent to the blue music room. Sherlock knew that it was possible to listen to their conversations if he hid himself in the blue music room a few hours before they met…which was how Sherlock knew that Mummy and Mycroft were worried because Sherlock hadn’t had a heat yet. Most Omegas had their first heat by the time they were fourteen. Sherlock was fifteen. Mummy and Mycroft never talked about it with Sherlock, but they were each worried that there was something wrong with Sherlock.

Sherlock knew there was nothing wrong with him. He couldn’t tell them that, of course, but there wasn’t…everything functioned… _normally_ in that area. (Even thinking about it made him blush.) He just hadn’t had a heat yet. That was all. He experienced…everything a fifteen-year-old Omega should. At least, according to the books he did.

“Yes!”

Sherlock’s eyes leaped to John at the exuberant shout. The Alpha was grinning proudly, his body covered in a thin patina of sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead, and radiating pleasure as Captain Lestrade picked his sword up from the dirt. All of Sherlock’s breath left his body in a rush, leaving him lightheaded. Lestrade gave John’s hand a congratulatory shake and they consulted, going back over the fight and comparing notes and strategies.

Sherlock swallowed around a heaviness in his throat which he usually only felt when he was alone, in the candlelit library, pouring over a dusty, erotic volume and letting himself feel the new, dizzying, and still slightly-scary spiral of arousal. Watching John exert himself, getting all sweaty and out of breath, was fascinating, and it made Sherlock want to touch John and find out what his skin felt like. Sherlock wondered if it would be smooth, like the polished wood of his violin, or rough like the callouses that covered John’s hands. Which made Sherlock wonder: what would those callouses feel like touching him? What would it feel like for John’s hands to-

Sherlock gripped his book in hands which were suddenly none-too-steady. Everything in his lower body tightened. He schooled his face, trying to look impassive, because it wouldn’t do to have these sorts of fantasies about John out of doors, in front of all these people who had come to see John and whisper to each other about how handsome John was, sigh and pine and wish he was their Alpha. Sherlock hated that everyone was watching John train because John was his. John belonged to Sherlock. He was Sherlock’s Alpha. It didn’t matter that they weren’t married yet and it didn’t matter that John had never so much as kissed Sherlock. They were still together. John was still _Sherlock’s._

They were betrothed, Sherlock thought with indignation, and one day, John would kiss him. They would get married and John would kiss Sherlock like other couples kissed and Sherlock’s knees went completely weak at the idea. He wanted to kiss John so badly. He stared at John, imagining getting to kiss him. And more… Sherlock could imagine what it would be like. He spent most nights imagining just that- that he was pressing against John and being kissed and letting John touch him, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock could trace the lines of John’s muscles in his arms, grip at them while John moved his lips downward, kissing Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock would tip his head back because he very much wanted to have John kiss his neck and he imagined what John would say when he felt Sherlock’s-

“Sherlock?” John called, jarring Sherlock out of his inappropriate daydreams. Sherlock fumbled his book and it fell to the dirt, the pages splayed. Sherlock wanted to die. His cheeks burned in humiliation. “We’re finished- are you ready to spar?”

* * *

 

John stood in the center of the yard, waiting for Sherlock to take his position across from him. The young Omega was taking his time. He slowly picked up his book and then straightened out the pages which had gotten bent when it fell, smoothing them out over and over, giving the task his full attention. John didn’t know why Sherlock was taking so long, but he didn’t say anything to rush him. John needed time to get his breath back after sparring with Captain Lestrade anyway.

He wiped the sweat from his brow but didn’t bother putting his tunic back on. It was too hot. Once upon a time, John would have been embarrassed about being half-naked in front of Sherlock, but most everyone trained without a shirt…and besides, Sherlock didn’t even seem to notice. He always read while John trained with Captain Lestrade and wasn’t aware of anything that happened in the training yard. If Sherlock had acted like it bothered him, John would’ve put his tunic back on immediately. As it was…

“Ready?” John asked when Sherlock approached, his practice sword gripped in one hand. Sherlock nodded. He kept his eyes fixed on John’s face with single-minded determination. That level of scrutiny was unsettling and, John thought, one of Sherlock’s best weapons. It also meant John could’ve been totally starkers and Sherlock wouldn’t have noticed, John thought with a smile.

He extended his sword and waited for Sherlock to cross their blades in the on-guard position. “Let’s get started then.”

Sherlock had come a long way since they’d first began, but as they moved across the training yard, quick-stepping forwards and back, parrying and thrusting, John still tempered his blows. He’d been sword-fighting all his life. It wasn’t fair to expect Sherlock to keep up with him like Captain Lestrade did. When John saw an opening in Sherlock’s defenses and lunged forward, he gently tapped Sherlock’s side with the broad side of his practice sword, instead of smacking him with it as he would have Lestrade.

Sherlock looked furious.

John grinned, unrepentant. He never let Sherlock win. That wasn’t the way he’d learn and John was nothing if not determined to be a good teacher.

They crossed swords again for the next bout and Sherlock attacked. Their swords rang loudly. John knew most everyone had stopped what they were doing to watch because the sight of Sherlock wielding a sword was no longer a source of amusement. People had laughed at first. They weren’t laughing anymore.

John had never been prouder of anything in his entire life than he was of Sherlock.

One by one, the soldiers finished their exercises and left the training yard, but the crowd gathered around the perimeter didn’t wane. All eyes were trained on Sherlock and John, watching them fight, murmuring to each other and critiquing Sherlock’s form. John didn’t let it effect him. He knew, by the concentrated look on Sherlock’s face, that the little boy wasn’t letting it effect him either.

John thought about calling an end to their match early, though. It was almost midday and the sun was hot. John himself was covered in sweat and he knew Sherlock had to be miserable because he couldn’t strip off his shirt like John or the other Alphas could. John thought that was ridiculous. Mrs. Hudson had specially commissioned Sherlock a set of clothes that covered him from neck to wrist to ankle like the Queen demanded, but were also made of diaphanous material, light and very sheer, and were cool enough for him to fight in. If John squinted, he could see through Sherlock’s shirt and glimpse his pale skin beneath.

John did not allow himself to squint.

But after their exertions, even Sherlock’s flimsy shirt was sticking to his body. His cheeks were red and his curls stuck to his forehead in sweaty tendrils that John’s fingers itched to brush away- but it wasn’t proper for him to touch Sherlock. So he didn’t.

“Keep your guard up.” He instructed, and Sherlock gave a terse nod, eyes flicking over John’s body before he lunged forward again. John just barely managed to deflect Sherlock’s attack and he laughed, enjoying the way Sherlock could always surprise him. They came together, intense, and John found himself falling back, giving ground as Sherlock advanced. At the last second, John saw his opening and leaped-

“ _Fu_ -!”

“Language.” John scolded playfully as Sherlock bent to pick up his sword again. Sherlock was sweaty and breathing hard and John thought about calling an end to their practice…but he held back. This was his and Sherlock’s last practice before the Scottish delegation arrived. John hadn’t seen his family in 4 years and, while he looked forward to seeing them, his stomach had been in knots for months.

He needed to talk to Sherlock.

He’d been putting it off for as long as he could. Because how could John explain to his innocent, sweet, virginal betrothed who James Sholto was and what the Omega had once been to John? How could John explain his own sordid past without disgusting Sherlock or hurting his feelings? How could John let Sherlock know that yes, he had once loved Sholto, but Sholto was John’s past and Sherlock was…Sherlock was John’s future? Not just his future. Sherlock was John’s _everything_.

It seemed like an insurmountable task. John didn’t feel like he was up to it.

He’d kept meaning to tell Sherlock about James Sholto but… John didn’t know how to tell Sherlock that years ago, he’d shared a heat with an Omega- an Omega who Sherlock would shortly be meeting, who would spend months in their Court, and who Sherlock would look at every time and think of John fucking them-

John let his guard drop for a split second-

Sherlock was suddenly there, darting forward. A swift movement sent John’s sword flying, landing yards away in the dirt, and Sherlock crowed with victory. There was a smattering of applause around the perimeter and John gave Sherlock a proud grin, retrieving his sword and then bowing benevolently.

“I yield, Oh master swordsman, to your experienced prowess.” John took Sherlock’s hand and scented at his wrist, in the tradition they’d established years ago. He worried that maybe he’d overexerted Sherlock because when John straightened, Sherlock’s cheeks had gone very, very red- an alarming shade- and his eyes were roving around the training yard, looking everywhere but at John. John wondered if Sherlock were about to pass out. He moved closer in case he had to catch the little boy. “Sherlock? Are you alright?”

“Mm? Yes, fine. I’m fine, John. Just fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

“You’ve just said ‘fine’ four times.” John pointed out and Sherlock drew himself up haughtily.

“Am I supposed to be impressed that you’ve learned how to count, John?”

John held up his hands. “No reason to be defensive. I just need to know if you’ll be fainting and I’ll be carrying you from the training yard or not.”

Sherlock sniffed. “I never faint.”

“Right.” John caught Sherlock’s eye and they shared a private joke, each of their faces breaking into mischievous grins. John decided this was the perfect opportunity to take the bull by the horns. “Um. Sherlock. After lunch. Can I speak to you? Alone?”

If Sherlock was surprised by the request, he didn’t show it. He agreed, allowed John to scent at his wrist one more time, and then left the training yard, holding his head up high as he passed the assembled nobles. John watched him go, feeling relieved…and like he was about to throw up.

* * *

 

Rain spattered the large windows of Sherlock’s private parlor, a torrential downpour which had started just after lunch. Inside, the palace was dreary and dark. Sherlock loved days like this. He’d asked Mrs. Hudson to tell the maids not to light any candles, wanting to ruminate alone in the black-clouded darkness for as long as possible.

He flung himself down on a low sofa to wait for John and stared up at the shadowy ceiling. Something was wrong. It wasn’t just that John had asked to speak with him in private. They had lots of private moments and did everything together. It was the way John had asked: looking worried and slightly sick, like Sherlock would be angry with him and say no.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He knew John was hiding something from him.

Lately, John made excuses to avoid Sherlock and spent a lot of time in his room all by himself. John didn’t talk as much as he usually did and he frowned and sighed for no reason. He was grumpy. He ignored Sherlock. He told Sherlock there was nothing wrong every time Sherlock asked.

But the oddest thing John did was stare at Sherlock.

A lot.

Sherlock normally loved being the center of John’s attention, but this was different. It made him uncomfortable. Sherlock would look up and catch John staring at him with a distant look in his eyes, brows drawn together like he was either worried or mad. Or maybe both, because Sherlock had trouble understanding John lately. He didn’t like it. They’d grown close over the last four years and John was Sherlock’s best friend. They did everything together. They didn’t keep secrets unless it was with each other (like the time they tied all of Sherlock’s bedsheets together, end to end, like a princess in one of Sherlock’s books had done, and when Sherlock tried using the improvised “rope”, the knots had all come undone and sent him crashing onto the balcony below. John had acted all growly and angry- which Sherlock hadn’t liked- and taken care of Sherlock like he was made of glass- which Sherlock had liked.).

Sherlock assumed that John’s behavior had something to do with the upcoming visit to Northumbria of John’s family. It’d taken Sherlock a while to put it together but John had changed ever since the members of the Scottish delegation had been announced.

Did John dread seeing his family that badly? Sherlock knew John hated most of his family, but surely they weren’t that terrible? Was there a degenerate cousin or another perverted uncle visiting Northumbria that John needed to tell Sherlock about? Was there someone John was afraid Sherlock would hate- or was John afraid his family would hate Sherlock?

What if that was it, Sherlock worried, drawing himself up from the sofa. What if John was afraid his family would hate Sherlock? And he didn’t know how to tell Sherlock without hurting his feelings? It was a very real fear since what had happened with Lennox. The last dealings Sherlock had had with John’s family hadn’t gone well. Perhaps John was worried about his family’s reception in Northumbria and how Sherlock would treat them after the debacle of four years ago. Maybe he worried that Sherlock carried a grudge and would be cold and unfriendly. Sherlock had every right to despise the Duke, and any family member of John’s…but he would never cause John distress.

The doorknob rattling announced John’s presence and Sherlock tried to put a smile on his face as John edged inside before closing the door behind him. It was breaking the rules. Per the marriage contract, Sherlock and John were never supposed to be alone together. Sherlock thought it was ridiculous. Mrs. Hudson, their _de facto_ chaperone, thought so too. She was hardly ever with them.

Sherlock watched John meander around the room, aimless as he picked things up and fiddled with them before putting them back down, and tilted his head to the side. “Are you alright?”

“Mm. I’m fine.”

It was the answer Sherlock expected. He rolled his eyes and waited…but as the minutes dragged out and John kept fiddling and seemed no closer to saying anything, Sherlock drew a deep breath. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Um.” John was obviously working himself up to something. Sherlock could almost see him marshaling his courage. He braced himself for John to say something terrible. “Sherlock. There’s something I need to talk to you about. I’ve been meaning to for months now, really. It’s to do with my family. Or rather. The Scottish delegation. They’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Yes. Well.” John visibly swallowed, eyes darting around the room. “Sherlock. Um…“

“I think I know what you want to say. John.” Sherlock said and John’s eyes widened.

“Y-you do?”

“Yes. I want to assure you that I look forward to meeting the people who are important to you. I will personally welcome each one of them and I promise that I won’t do or say anything to embarrass you.” Sherlock had hoped John would be reassured by his speech. Instead, John looked even more ill.

“I appreciate that. Really. But that’s not what I was going to say. I know you’ll be perfect. You always are, and you never embarrass me.” John bit at his lip, stalling. “Sherlock. The people who are part of the Scottish delegation are all important to me…in different ways.”

“They _are_ your family…”

“Not everyone who is part of the delegation are members of my family. Some of them are my friends and some of them are…or well, one of them was…” John sighed. He took Sherlock’s hand and Sherlock froze with shock. John never touched him like this. Strictly speaking, John wasn’t allowed to touch Sherlock at all because he was an underage Omega and they weren’t married yet. Not that Sherlock cared anything about that. He knew he was blushing. John’s hand was soft and warm and there were callouses on his palms from sword fighting. Sherlock could feel them with the pads of his fingers. He felt light-headed.

“Sherlock. I want to tell you, before the delegation arrives, that I’m happy here.”

Sherlock kept his hand as still as possible, not wanting to draw attention to it in case John stopped touching him. “I’m glad you’re happy.” His voice came out just a little breathy. “Northumbria is your home. I want you to be happy here.”

“No, Sherlock.” John’s grip tightened on Sherlock’s hand and Sherlock forgot how to breathe. His entire body thrilled, the pulse leaping at his wrist so strongly he was afraid John would feel it. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m happy here because of _you_. I’m happy _with you._ ”

“O-oh.” Sherlock didn’t know what to say. It was the sweetest thing John had ever said to him.

“I should have told you that before now, but I thought you knew. I thought it was obvious.” John offered Sherlock a weak smile. “But now with the delegation coming…I wanted to make sure you knew that I am happy with you. So, no matter what may be said when the delegation arrives, never doubt that. Alright? I would rather be here with you, exactly as we are, without changing _anything_ …than anywhere with someone else, no matter what…may have happened in the past.”

Sherlock nodded breathlessly. There was a funny, fluttery feeling in his chest after John’s confession. “I’m glad you’re happy.” He whispered, squeezing John’s hand. “I’m happy with you too, John.”

“Good.” John cupped Sherlock’s cheek, beaming, and Sherlock was suddenly very aware of how close they were. Their faces were less than a foot apart. Sherlock could see every one of John’s eyelashes, and the dark lights reflected in his eyes. He glanced down at John’s lips then back up and caught John doing the same. Staring at Sherlock’s lips, his own slightly parted. John’s eyes flicked up, caught Sherlock’s, and their gazes held for breathless, endless seconds.

Sherlock’s heart stopped beating.

He leaned forward, his eyes slipping closed-

And John was suddenly gone, quickly moving away from Sherlock to stand near the windows where the rain still drummed against the glass. Sherlock watched him go, disoriented, his cheek burning where John had touched him, and humiliation swept over him over what he’d just done, and how thoroughly he’d been rejected.

“I’m sorry, John.” Sherlock was so mortified he couldn’t look at John but in his periphery he saw John take a few steps toward him.

“No, Sherlock. That’s not- I didn’t mean to…you don’t have any reason to be-“

They both startled at the knock on the door, and Sherlock couldn’t help but be relieved when Mrs. Hudson popped her head around the corner.

“There you are, dear. You’ll need to come along with me now. Your Queen Mother is wanting a word with you. A few last minute warnings about the Scottish delegation, I imagine.” Mrs. Hudson looked from one boy to the other, frowning. “What’s the matter here? Have you two had a row?”

“No.” John said. “We were just…”

“Talking about the Scottish delegation.” Sherlock finished for him, and he could hear the strain in his voice and knew Mrs. Hudson picked up on it when her frown deepened, but there was nothing to be done. All he could think about was the way he’d tried to kiss John and how John had almost flung himself away. He was grateful for an escape and was almost at the door when-

“Sherlock?” 

Sherlock reluctantly turned and held out his wrist to be scented, studying the carpet at his feet and wanting the floor to open up and swallow him alive. John carefully took his hand and scented at him like he always did. Then, he hesitated.

It felt like lightening, scorching through Sherlock’s body, when John pressed a lingering kiss against the inside of his wrist. It made his pulse stutter, and he was sure that if Mrs. Hudson hadn’t been standing behind him, he would have made an embarrassing sound.

“Please forgive me for being so rude.” John murmured. Sherlock forced himself to nod and took his hand back, John letting him go with a small sigh, and hurried from the room after Mrs. Hudson. It was only once he was in the hall, and safely out of sight from John, that Sherlock clutched his wrist to his chest where the feeling of John’s kiss still tingled.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, babes! Buckle the fuck up for this chapter.

The members of the Scottish delegation were a motley group.

Sherlock eyed them with deep skepticism as they made their way down the open aisle of the Great Hall. They were not impressive: thirty-odd people with varying shades of red or blonde hair, all dressed in mismatched shades of plaid, and with scowling expressions. Sherlock looked at each face, searching for similarities to John- a lowered eyebrow here or pert nose there or John’s beautifully broad shoulders- but didn’t see anything to relate his John to this…this… _hotchpotch_ of people.

Sherlock had studied the list in Mycroft’s study. He knew the group comprised a handful of aunts and uncles, cousins by the dozen (and cousins were always the most odious, in Sherlock’s experience), and various distant relatives. There were also those who weren’t exactly related but close enough to the King who would report whatever they found in Northumbria directly back to the King. But most of these people were John’s family. There should be similarities…somewhere.

But maybe John favored his mother instead.

Sherlock was pleased John didn’t look like this side of his family. They looked like unpleasant people.

He took a risk, sneaking a glance at John where he stood beside him, at attention on the dais along with Queen Holmes and her Consort and Mycroft. Behind Mycroft stood General Greely, commander of the Queen’s Army, and Captain Lestrade of the Prince’s Guard, and his Sergeants Donovan and Anderson flanking them. It was a subtle show of strength in front of these foreign intruders. Everyone was dressed in their best. Buttons gleamed, trousers had sharp creases, and boots reflected the sunshine.

Sherlock was miserably uncomfortable.

Everything he wore was laced so tight. It was in the style of what Mycroft wore, and was the current fashion in Northumbria, but Sherlock hated being so confined. Laces crisscrossed up both his arms and legs. More laces held together his tunic at the sides and kept his collar tight at his throat, concealing him from neck to wrist to ankle. Just like a proper Omega should be. Mummy had told him he looked handsome. Sherlock felt like he was being slowly suffocated. He couldn’t wait until the welcoming ceremony was over so he could go back to his rooms, fling off the stifling clothes, and _breathe_.

Sherlock glanced at John again.

The Alpha looked very handsome. Even after 4 years, John still hadn’t fully converted to Northumbrian fashions, with their elaborate lacings and tight fits. He had consented to wear the colors of the Holmes family- blue and cream- with small nods here and there to his former family colors. The buttons on John’s cream-colored waistcoat were red, as was the thin stripe that ran down the side of each leg on his trousers. His blue cape was edged in red velvet and the ceremonial tassels at the top of his boots were red. The scabbard which held his ceremonial sword was also red but worked in blue with the symbols of the Holmes family.

It was John’s crown, though, that had changed the most. After the Royal Tour, there had been a ceremony where Queen Holmes presented him with a new crown, denoting him a Prince of Northumbria until he would wear the crown of kingship. John’s crown was a mirror of Sherlock’s, made to match, worked in silver. It was less elaborate, not as decorative, made for an Alpha with sturdy, strong lines and fewer of the glittering sapphires which speckled Sherlock’s. But John didn’t need anything flashy. He wore the crown with grace and it grandly sat atop his head, bringing out the blue of his eyes and his tanned cheeks.

Sherlock quietly sighed. He secretly thought John looked like a prince from one of the fairy tales Mrs. Hudson had read to him as a child. He was so dashing. Debonair. Nice and lovely and everything perfect. Next to John, Sherlock felt like an awkward chicken, plucked of all its feathers, too thin, weaving and bobbing and looking ridiculous.

It made John’s rejection of him yesterday all the more painful. John had been wonderful and hadn’t mentioned Sherlock’s disastrous attempt at kissing him- for which Sherlock was grateful. But Sherlock couldn’t stop remembering it. He’d acted so silly. His stomach was on fire with humiliation every time he thought of the way he’d behaved, the total lack of finesse as he leaned forward and- and then John _flung_ himself away to get away from Sherlock as fast as he could. It was a mortifying recollection and should have been enough to stamp out any desire Sherlock had of a repeat…

But…

Clasping his hands behind his back, Sherlock allowed himself to imagine what it would’ve been like if John had kissed him back. It was dangerous to imagine in front of all these people- and while standing beside John- but he couldn’t help it. Sherlock wanted to kiss John very, very badly. He had for a long time. He felt like his entire body was oriented toward John like a magnet, as irrepressible as the ocean was pulled by the moon. And he couldn’t help wondering how it would have felt if John had leaned forward too, closed his eyes and sealed their lips together. How it would have felt to breathe the same air as John, touch his face and feel the stubble beneath his fingertips. Maybe open his mouth and even let John press Sherlock back against the sofa…

“Your Majesty,” The master of ceremonies pompously began, his voice carrying in the large hall until every corner echoed with his words, and Sherlock started guiltily. He blushed and kept his face averted, hoping no one guessed what he’d been thinking. “May I have the honor of presenting to you the members of the Scottish delegation, the members of the Scottish royal Court.”

What followed was more than two hours of drudging bore.

Each person in the delegation was presented, stepping forward when their name and title were called, curtseying or bowing to the Queen, then the Consort, and then to Sherlock and John. Each offered a present to the Omega Crown Prince from whatever noble house they represented. Sherlock didn’t touch any of the presents. The master of ceremonies’ assistant swept each item out of the visitor’s hands once Sherlock murmured his rote thanks, whisking them out of the Great Hall and into a side room where they would be unwrapped and appropriately displayed.

Compliments were paid to Sherlock for his beauty, his handsome bearing, how the rumors about him which had reached Scotland had fallen far, far short of doing him justice, etc. Sherlock accepted the words as his due, but he knew there was no substance behind them and after the tenth person told him how stunning he was, how his bearing was so regal, so debonair, so wondrous, so overwhelming that they were in raptures just by being in his presence…he stopped even replying.

And thus it went, over and over and over again.

After an hour, Sherlock’s eyes began to droop.

The introductions dragged.

Sometimes, one of the Scottish delegates would have a speech prepared, something to say to the Queen, then an equally long and self-important speech to recite at John and Sherlock, praising them for this or that and thanking them for such and such a thing. Sherlock didn’t listen to half of it.

His legs started to hurt. He wanted to shift on his feet but he knew Mycroft would pinch him if he didn’t stay still.

“Baroness Claudia Morton, and her Omega, Devon…the Earl of Perth, and his daughter, Mildred…Countess of Mar…”

John’s cool reception to most of his family when they were introduced spoke volumes. There hadn’t been a single one of them that he seemed pleased to see. Sherlock disliked them immediately, purely on principle. If John didn’t like them, Sherlock decided, then neither did he.

“Lord and Lady Selkirk, and their children…Sir Bart, and his Omega, Stewart…”

Particularly obnoxious, the Earl of Dunsinane, who was half-deaf, declared that he couldn’t understand the Northumbrian accent. He loudly demanded a translator, mumbling about foreign devils and wolves parading about in lamb’s clothing going around and seducing good, upstanding princes of Scotland. John’s ears went red with embarrassment and anger and he clenched his jaw so hard Sherlock was afraid he would chip a tooth.

Sherlock thought it was ridiculous. Anyone could see that he hadn’t seduced John. The very idea was laughable. (Sherlock spared a few moments imagining how he would seduce John. But in no scenario, no matter how hard he tried, was he successful. Even in his own imaginings, Sherlock fell short in every way that mattered.)

The introductions continued.

Mycroft had taught Sherlock how to act in these delicate situations- cool and aloof and inaccessible- and Sherlock inclined his head, accepted the bows and curtsies, and gave a bored, indifferent look while he was scrutinized, weighed, measured, and very obviously found wanting despite the pretty speeches that claimed otherwise.

Inwardly, he was very uncomfortable.

He wanted to make a good impression on John’s family, but as the ceremony entered the second hour, Sherlock began to falter. He’d known John’s family would be curious about him, what he looked like, and would want to know how he behaved and how John treated him. It was hard to stand in front of them and pretend to be winsome and charming and brilliant when he remembered how John had thrown himself away from him yesterday, and the awkwardness between them since. John didn’t show him the slightest partiality during the ceremony, barely glancing at him, and Sherlock desperately wanted off the dais and to be alone, away from all the prying eyes that skinned him alive with their disapproval.

“Baron Stewart and his Alpha heir, Theodore…Baroness Campbell, and her Alpha son, Derik…Baron James Sholto…”

John went rigid, his body jerking as if he’d been struck, and the crowd exploded into shocked whispers as John stepped off the dais, rushing forward and stopping short in front of Baron James Sholto.

“James-!” John reached out, fingertips brushing over the horrible, shiny burn scar covering half of Sholto’s face.

It was an enormous breech of etiquette. A collective gasp rippled over the crowd and Sherlock stared. John didn’t seem to be aware he’d done anything wrong. He was captivated by the Omega in front of him, still touching his scar gently as if he were afraid he’d hurt him.

“Are you alright?” John’s voice tremored, clearly upset by the appearance of his...cousin? Relative? Friend? Sherlock didn’t know what or who Sholto was to John. He’d never heard him mentioned before. Not once. And now John was distressed by seeing him. That much was obvious. Sherlock wondered if John hadn’t been told of whatever accident had left Baron Sholto disfigured…or if he’d known but hadn’t expected the extent of the disfigurement. But if John had known, Sherlock realized, then why hadn’t he ever mentioned Baron Sholto to him? Why had he never confided in Sherlock? He was positive he’d remember John telling him about a friend who was injured.

“Oh.” Baron Sholto smiled, his scar making one side of it look more like a grimace. His voice was surprisingly deep and, besides the injury, he was handsome. A young Omega who looked about John’s age, tall, blonde-haired, and very well-dressed. “I’m fine, as you can see. It’s a long story, and not nearly as interesting as I’m sure you think it is. I only wish the story were as shocking as the wound because then I’d never want for free drinks.”

“James.” John looked appalled. “But. But are you really alright? How-”

“I won’t mind telling you later…Prince John.” Sholto slid his eyes to the side, subtly reminding John that they weren’t alone and that the entire Court was watching them with bated breath. “But I haven’t come all the way from Scotland with this lot,” He rolled his eyes, “to talk about me and my boring story. I’m here to meet your lovely betrothed.”

“Right.” John wavered, then drew himself up. “Right. Of…of course. I…of course.” He mounted the dais, keeping his eyes down and not looking at Sherlock, and took up his position beside him again.

The master of ceremonies, flustered by what had just happened, announced Baron James Sholto again, and the omega bowed to Queen Holmes and her Consort, and then to Sherlock and John.

Now that John had shown interest in Sholto, Sherlock studied him closely and he wouldn’t have otherwise noticed, but he caught a fleeting shift in Sholto’s expression when their eyes met before Sholto bowed, breaking eye contact, and Sherlock didn’t have a chance to analyze- but when Sholto straightened there was still something in his face that Sherlock didn’t understand…something…odd.

“We have much to discuss, Prince John.” Sholto murmured and Sherlock didn’t know what that meant but he felt Mycroft stiffen beside him, drawing in a hissing little breath.

Sherlock was even more confused.

For a long moment, John didn’t respond. Finally, he gave one short, curt nod and Sholto bowed again before moving aside for the rest of the delegation to be announced.

But Sherlock’s mind was fixed. He was aware of Sholto and where he stood for the rest of the ceremony, and he was also aware of John, stiff and quiet, avoiding him for the rest of the ceremony.

What did this mean? Sherlock burned for knowledge.

John had never mentioned Baron James Sholto. Ever. Not once. While John sometimes liked to complain that Sherlock ignored him and never listened, Sherlock heard every word John said. Most of the time. He would’ve remembered John mentioning Sholto, and his connection to the man. John had never mentioned Baron James Sholto.

It seemed significant.

Sherlock didn’t know why. It just did.

If John were as close to Sholto as he seemed to be- close enough to be extremely upset at the Omega’s injury- then why had he never mentioned him to Sherlock? Why? And why had Baron Sholto looked at Sherlock like that? It was almost as if…as if he didn’t like Sherlock.

That was absurd, Sherlock told himself. They’d never met. Baron James Sholto had no reason to dislike him.

Did he?

* * *

 

As soon as the ceremony was over, Sherlock slipped out of the Great Hall and hurried to his bedroom. Mrs. Hudson was gone and so he flailed around until he’d managed to half-unlace himself from his clothes, kicked off his boots, and then quickly padded down the hallway which connected his bedroom and Mycroft’s. The symbolic slipper wasn’t on the doorknob but Sherlock still listened just to make sure that Mycroft was alone before knocking.

Mycroft’s bedroom was light and airy, a pleasant oasis after the stifling morning they’d had. All of the windows were thrown open to let the sunshine stream in, as well as a gentle, warm breeze, and it was redolent with all the scents Sherlock most closely associated with safety and love and home: the Omega scent of his brother, mixed ever so slightly with the faintest, lingering trace of Alpha, of Captain Lestrade.

Mycroft himself lay across his bed, still fully laced into his clothes, one arm thrown over his face. He hadn’t even taken off his boots and they listlessly dangled over the edge of the bed. Sherlock eyed the lethargic display. It was very unlike his brother. Mycroft was always proper and prim and never lazed around fully clothed. He never _lazed around_ at all.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Mycroft’s voice was muffled by the sleeve of his tunic. “What do you want?”

Sherlock shrugged even though he knew Mycroft couldn’t see and ambled his way over to the bed. He hesitated only for a second before clambering on, making his way across the expanse to his brother’s side and collapsing beside him. Mycroft grunted with annoyance, but didn’t tell Sherlock to move, and raised an arm so Sherlock could snug himself in against his side. He fit his body against Mycroft’s with easy familiarity and some of the stress he’d been carrying since that awful moment of John’s rejection yesterday melted away. Sherlock closed his eyes and just enjoyed being held for a while.

He and Mycroft didn’t do this much anymore. He supposed it was natural. Sherlock was growing up. He was fifteen-years-old and no longer a child. And Mycroft rarely slept alone these days. Captain Lestrade was his constant bed companion and Sherlock didn’t begrudge Mycroft any happiness- as long as he didn’t have to personally witness it. (Sherlock made a face.) He was glad Mycroft was in love, and that the Captain loved him back. Of course, Sherlock couldn’t imagine who _wouldn’t_ love Mycroft.

But Sherlock sometimes missed climbing into Mycroft’s bed in the middle of the night and being held and having whispered conversations that were just the two of them, alone in the dark of the palace. No one bothered them and Sherlock could be safe and content in the proof of Mycroft’s love for him. When he was with Mycroft, he never had to worry about Omegas or Alphas, or what the future held, because he knew his brother would always protect him.

Mycroft sighed, pressing his face against the top of Sherlock’s head, and Sherlock felt him breathing against his scalp, a regular in and out. He wondered if Mycroft were about to go to sleep.

Maybe he should forget about his dumb questions about Sholto and let Mycroft rest. Mycroft’s heat had ended two days ago, and it was clear he was still recovering. No one knew that Captain Lestrade shared Mycroft’s heats except for Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, and Anthea- Mycroft’s maid. Sherlock didn’t know exactly what happened when Captain Lestrade shared Mycroft’s heats (and he didn’t want to know) but he thought the Captain wasn’t taking care of Mycroft like he should. Mycroft seemed so tired lately. All the time. Sherlock felt bad for him.

“Mycroft?”

“Mm?”

“…are you alright?”

Mycroft rubbed his nose through Sherlock’s curls, snuffling at him in what was unmistakably a scenting. Sherlock squirmed, pleased. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? It’s just…you seem…tired.”

Mycroft was silent for a few minutes and Sherlock could tell he was thinking, trying to decide how much to tell him. “I’m not tired, Sherlock.” Mycroft snuffled further into Sherlock’s curls and his next words were muffled against Sherlock’s scalp. “Captain Lestrade and I have quarreled and…I believe our connection is at an end.”

“What did he do?” Sherlock pulled away and sat up, fixing his brother with a ferocious look- which was wasted when Mycroft threw his arm back over his face. “I’ll- I’ll hurt him if he’s hurt you. He can’t do this, after everything you’ve done for him. You’ve…you’ve…he...” But Sherlock ran out of steam, unable to believe that Captain Lestrade would be so heartless as to leave his brother. Mycroft loved him. For Captain Lestrade to throw that away, stomp on it to the dirt, was incomprehensible.

Sherlock vowed to never say another kind word to Captain Lestrade as long as he lived. He hated the Alpha. He hoped he was miserable for the rest of his life.

“It’s not Captain Lestrade’s fault. There are things he wants that I am unable to give him. That is all.”

Sherlock waited for Mycroft to elaborate, but he finally prodded, “Like what?”

“After my last heat, a few days ago…we had an argument.” Mycroft responded in a halting voice. “The details are private,” He said repressively, and Sherlock closed his mouth against the questions he’d almost asked, “but…it ended when I told Gregory that perhaps…perhaps it would be better for him to find another Omega who could…who could make him as happy as he deserves…and then he…left.”

_“He left?”_

“He’s not returned to me since.”

“What was the argument about?”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft sighed, but as was the way of people who were miserable, who were seeking comfort from a loved one, he revealed too much in his misery. “Gregory asked me to bond with him.”

_“What?”_

Bonding was an irreversible action that had lifelong consequences. You had to love someone- or want them enough- to be with them the rest of your life. And Captain Lestrade wanted to _bond_ with _Mycroft_?

“Bonding is a very important aspect of an Alpha-Omega relationship. It’s why a couple bonds on their wedding night, or as soon as possible. It’s…well. I have no frame of references. But from what I understand, it makes both Alpha and Omega feel more…confident in their relationship.”

“And Captain Lestrade asked you?”

“…yes.”

“And you…refused him?”

“Yes. It wasn’t the first time he asked me, but this time…I had to tell him the truth. It can never be, and so he left.”

“But why can’t you bond with Captain Lestrade?”

Mycroft lowered his arm and studied Sherlock with an incredulous look. “I can’t, Locky. It’s impossible. No one must ever know I’m an Omega. You know that.”

“Yes, but…they don’t know you’re an Omega now. No one does…except for me and Mummy and Father, and Mrs. Hudson and Anthea, and Captain Lestrade…it could still stay a secret…couldn’t it?”

Mycroft shook his head. “It’s a risk I’m not willing to take.”

“But you already cover your scent glands and if you bonded with Captain Lestrade, nothing would have to change-“

“Sherlock. _No_. You aren’t saying anything that Captain Lestrade hasn’t already told me…but it won’t convince me it’s a good idea. The dangers are too horrible.”

“Because of me.” Sherlock realized with a sinking sensation. Mycroft couldn’t bond, couldn’t be exposed as an Omega, because it would jeopardize Sherlock’s position in Northumbria. It wasn’t himself Mycroft was worried about. Mycroft always thought of himself last in anything. It was Sherlock he always thought about and worried over and protected. And now Mycroft’s relationship was at an end because of him. Sherlock felt a lump rise in his throat. “Mycroft…I’m sorry. I-“

“No, Sherlock.” Mycroft sat up and pulled Sherlock into a crushing hug. “This isn’t your fault. Please don’t feel bad. I’d rather have you, happy and safe, than ten Captain Lestrades. You’re the most important person in my life, even above Captain Lestrade. I would do anything to protect you.” He whispered fiercely. “I love you.”

“I love you too, My.” Sherlock whispered back and tightened his arms around Mycroft’s middle, wishing he could prove to him how much he loved him. A hug was a pale consolation.

He knew Mycroft loved Captain Lestrade and this separation was causing him pain no matter what he said. Sherlock was sure that Mycroft would have accepted Captain Lestrade if it weren’t for him. It wasn’t strange for Captain Lestrade, an Alpha, to want to bond with the Omega they were in love with-

But Captain Lestrade didn’t love Mycroft very much if this was enough to make him leave, Sherlock thought with indignation. He still hated the Alpha. He hoped he fell off his horse and into a giant mud puddle.

“Alright, enough.” Mycroft gently shoved Sherlock away, trying to be playful and giving him a watery smile that Sherlock did his best to return. “You didn’t come in here to talk about my problems. What was it you needed?”

Sherlock couldn’t ask about Baron Sholto now. He just couldn’t. Mycroft didn’t feel good and he looked on the verge of tears and didn’t want to have Sherlock quizzing him about other people and being annoying.

“Could you help me unlace?” Sherlock offered Mycroft his arm and Mycroft gave him a very unimpressed look, glancing between Sherlock’s face and the sleeve. It was clear that Sherlock wasn’t fooling him, but Mycroft capitulated and dutifully started plucking at the tangled laces.

Sherlock watched as his brother set everything to right, just as he always did, and vowed to kick Captain Lestrade in the shins the next time he saw him.

Mycroft sniffed, his eyes dry but still rimmed red, and Sherlock decided he would aim _much_ higher than his shins when he kicked Captain Lestrade.

* * *

 

There was an elaborate dinner that evening for the Scottish delegation, with a confusing mishmash of traditional Scottish dishes in among the Northumbrian ones. The servants had worked for days decorating the dining hall and John didn’t think he’d seen the room look so beautiful since his first meal there, four years earlier, when they had celebrated his betrothal to Sherlock.

Hundreds of candles lit the room, and the golden plates and utensils and cups had been resurrected, polished, and gleamed from every surface. Flowers were wreathed around the open windows, filling the air with alluring night scents that were intoxicating when combined with the rich smells of food and wine. Some intricate evaluation had been done to decide who sat with whom and who was placed at the top table with the royal family, and as he walked with the rest of the Holmes through the crowd which bowed to them as they passed, John could see who was waiting for them and his heart sank when he spied James.

He’d known James was coming to Northumbria but it was still a shock to actually see him again. John had been preparing himself for months to see his friend and former lover, but until the man was in the room with him, he hadn’t realized how awkward it would be.

He caught James’s eyes when he approached the table and John wondered if he were thinking about the same things he was: Growing up together. Sharing confidences. Clinging to each other in an avaricious world. Quiet nights, just the two of them. Feeling the same yearnings and passions. Not being lonely anymore. Making plans for the future which neither had the hope of taking place.

John dropped his gaze, trying to understand how he was feeling. He was barely aware of the Queen making a speech and then inviting them to sit.

Servants fluttered around the table setting out dishes and filling goblets. The master of ceremonies had pride of place beside the Queen, sitting at her right hand, read to murmur in her ear who was who, or provide necessary information that may have slipped her mind. He made the introductions around the table and the Queen smiled and welcomed each person individually, but John was lost in memories.

He had been in love with James. Once. He didn’t think he was in love with him anymore…but he still loved James. To a certain extent. Seeing him again, after four years, made John happy and miserable all at the same time. He’d worried about seeing him because of the awkwardness it could dredge up, but he hadn’t realized that he’d missed his company. His steady character. His calm temperament. James had been there for John at a time when no one else had, when John felt like his father’s entire Court was out to get him, and he was verbally punched and prodded from morning to evening. It was _James_ who had shown kindness and _James_ who had smiled and laughed and given John someone to talk to. It was _James_ who had shown a preference for John that had nothing to do with his father and everything to do with John himself. It was _James_ who'd held John in bed, while their hearts were still racing and sweat cooling on their skin, and told him-

“Baron Sholto. I understand you and John grew up together.”

John cringed. Worry over what James would say stabbed at him. He turned his eyes to the Omega, unable to keep from it, his heart racing.

“We did.” James’s answering smile to the Queen was soft and John felt guilty for worrying. James had never been capricious. He had always been John’s staunchest defender. “John was my best friend for many years, and we went on lots of adventures.” James gave John an arch look across the table, offering him to share in the humor. “And we got in lots of trouble, too.”

“Oh?” Queen Holmes looked intrigued. “John always seems like the model of decorum. It’s hard to imagine him getting into trouble.”

“Well, we all grow up, don’t we?”

“Tell us about one of your adventures.” Queen Holmes entreated. “I’m sure we’d all love to know what John was like as a boy.”

“It’s only fair.” Sherlock said. “John’s been here to witness a little of me getting into trouble-“

“A little?” John couldn’t help asking and Sherlock glowered at him while Mycroft hid his laughter behind a napkin.

“Don’t let John fool you.” James said. “He’s not as self-righteous as he acts. He’s done some very wicked things.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Of course, keep in mind that all of this was very, very long ago. Another lifetime, really." The corners of James's eyes tightened and John knew it was probably not noticeable to anyone but himself. Still, he worried. "But..." James grinned and launched into a story about his and John’s scrap with a visiting soldier from England, leaving out no details. No witticism was untold and by the end, he had the entire table hanging on his every word. When he finished by telling how he and John had filled the arrogant knight’s bed with fertilizer, everyone was laughing. People not seated at the top table craned their necks, trying to see what had the Queen so entertained and shooting envious looks.

“That makes some of what I’ve done completely innocent by comparison.” Sherlock announced. “I’ll have to remember that the next time John decides to take me to task over something I’ve done.”

John protested. “I never take you to task-“

“I would be happy to tell you more stories of John whenever you like if it would assist you in thwarting his attempts at being an exasperating Patron.” James offered and Sherlock gave him a smile in return. Glancing between the two of them, John had another reason to feel guilty.

He hardly listened when James launched into another story about their playing a trick on one of the ladies at Court. James was here and John was suddenly aware of how _childish_ Sherlock looked in comparison.

Comparing Sherlock and James wasn’t appropriate. John tried not to. But now that he was aware of them, the differences leapt out at him. James was tall and rugged, with muscles from years of sword-training. Sherlock was thin and lithe. Blonde stubble covered James’s cheeks and jaw. Sherlock was smooth-faced with not even a shadow of hair. James told his story with a deep, unaffected voice- and when Sherlock spoke his voice was high and clear. It was all so obvious. Their expressions. The breadth of their shoulders. Their eyes.

Sherlock was attractive, John admitted that to himself, but it wasn’t…Sherlock was…he was a royal Omega. He was so innocent. Seeing him alongside James displayed that in the most obvious way. John thought…he didn’t know what he thought. It was all a jumble- and in the center of the jumble was the way Sherlock had looked at him yesterday, his guileless eyes trained on John’s lips and then those same eyes sliding closed as Sherlock leaned forward-

It’d been a mistake. It had to have been a mistake. Sherlock was only 15. He was a child. He didn't even _think_ about things like that. John felt perverted imagining that he did.

John very carefully _did not_ think of what sort of activities _he’d_ been doing when he was 15 years old…or with _whom_ (the same _whom_ sitting across the table, regaling the group with another story of their exploits in Scotland). Sherlock was different. He'd been raised differently. He didn't even know what sex was or all the feelings that existed between Alphas and Omegas.

The dinner passed in a haze.

They stood up and moved to the ballroom, John offering his arm to Sherlock like always, but he was uncomfortable. They opened the dance, something traditional and Northumbrian, moving together like they had for years, but it was different this time. John didn't know why. He snuck glances at the boy in his arms, hardly knowing what to do or say. He'd never had that trouble with Sherlock before.

John spent the rest of the evening dancing with his obnoxious cousins. He squired them around the ballroom, introducing them to the Court as he went. He did his best to avoid James. The entire evening was horrible. He wanted it to be over.

It seemed too good to be true when it finally was.

The urge to run from the ballroom was overwhelming, but John squared his shoulders and endured the endless good-nights. Finally, he was in front of Sherlock, the Omega beaming at him as John scented his wrist, smelling Sherlock’s sweet, baby-soft scent that was now as familiar to him as his own. The memory of how he'd been so improper yesterday, kissing Sherlock's wrist, flitted through John's head and, equally mortifying, was the desire to do it again.

But when John looked up, James was watching them. John quickly looked away, but he felt like he’d been caught doing something embarrassing and he dropped Sherlock’s hand, turning away and bidding him a curt good-night.

* * *

 

The palace was quiet.

Sherlock glided along the deserted corridors, careful not to make a sound. He knew the best route to take to avoid anyone and sneak his way down to the library. After the day he’d had, he was jittery. Unsettled. The best thing to calm him, he’d decided after tossing and turning for hours, was to spend a leisurely hour looking at _those books_ in a dark corner of the library.

And if he imagined John’s face near the end of his hour, well. That was his business.

The library was dark, no candles were lit, but Sherlock still crept along, shivering a little as the cold from the stone floor stung his bare feet. By now, he’d been here often enough that he could make his way in the pitch black with his eyes closed, and read _those books_ by the light of the moon shining in at the windows. He quickened his steps, gooseflesh breaking out over his skin, and started to contemplate stealing one of the books and taking it back up to his room when-

He heard voices.

Sherlock stopped, surprised. Who would be in the library at this late hour? Was it someone from Scotland snooping around, trying to find something valuable to take? A midnight rendezvous? Sherlock scampered closer to where the voices were coming from and ducked behind a shelf. He tip-toed along the aisle until he found a gap in the books and peered through. When he realized who the two people in the shadows were, he sucked in a sharp breath- quickly clamping a hand over his mouth to keep them from hearing him.

“…knew he was younger than you, but I didn’t expect him to be so _young_.” Baron James Sholto shrugged. “I mean. Has he even had a heat yet?”

“James.” John’s rebuke was sharp and angry and Sholto hurried to apologize.

“I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean to be offensive…but my point is…you can’t be happy here.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you can’t be. Not in this situation. Not like this. Not with the way things are.”

 _The way things are?_ What did that mean?

Sherlock edged closer, careful to be silent, frowning as he listened. Why were Baron Sholto and John meeting here, in the dark, empty library at past midnight? Why were they meeting alone? With no lantern or candle?

“John. I know you. You can’t be satisfied scenting at a little child’s wrist for years.” Sholto reached out, taking John’s hand with both his own, and lowered his voice so Sherlock could barely hear. “You need companionship.”

John pulled away from Sholto. “Sherlock is companion enough for me.” He said and Sherlock preened, smirking.

“I don’t doubt that. Sherlock is charming and smart and funny…and fifteen years old.”

Sherlock didn’t like the way Sholto said his age. He said it like it was nothing. Like Sherlock was still a child. And he wasn’t. Sherlock wrinkled his nose, waiting for John to defend him.

But John didn’t say anything. He stayed silent, frowning at Sholto in the dark and Sherlock’s heart stuttered, free-falling at the implications of John’s silence. The smirk melted off his face.

“I don’t doubt you care for Sherlock.” Sholto said. “It’s obvious that you do, and it’s no less than what I would expect from you. It’s very noble, very honorable. But what about you, John?”

“What about me?”

“What about your happiness?”

“Sherlock makes me happy.”

Sholto shook his head and took John’s hand again. This time, John didn’t move away. Sherlock clutched at the bookshelf in front of him, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. He didn’t want Sholto touching John. He especially didn’t want John allowing it.

“Sherlock makes you happy during the _days_ …but the nights can be just as long as the days. And Sherlock can’t spend _those_ with you. Who spends time with you then, John? Who comforts you, in the darkness? Who’s there to hold you, and make you feel less alone?”

John shook his head, looking pained. “James…”

“I’ve missed you.”

John sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I’ve…James, we can’t. Things are different now.”

They had been together.

The realization burst over Sherlock like a bucket of ice-cold water. John and Sholto had been together. That explained why John had never mentioned Sholto to Sherlock, and it explained why he had been awkward and surprised to see him this morning at the ceremony. The way Sholto had looked at Sherlock. It all made sense now.

“I know things are different now. You’re betrothed and you have obligations that you didn’t have before. After you left…when I heard about the betrothal being finalized…there were many others. But then after the accident…” He traced over the scars on his face. John caught at his hand, lowering it, and ran his own fingers over the mottled skin, gently. “I imagine Father will eventually be able to find an Alpha who will have me- if he bribes them with enough money.”

His bitterness was palpable and Sherlock felt sorry for him, even while anger boiled at the liberties Sholto was taking with John and the fact that John had concealed his past from him. Why couldn’t he have just told Sherlock about Sholto? Why? Sherlock would have understood. Sholto had been in John's past, before he even met Sherlock. The fact that John hadn't told him made the entire thing seem underhanded.

Sholto ducked his head to the side to whisper in John’s ear and John’s mouth fell open, his breath sighing out, unsteady. His hands grasped at Sholto’s hips, bunching the fabric of his tunic between his fingers.

Sherlock wondered what Sholto had said to provoke such a reaction, only to realize that the Omega wasn’t _talking_. The soft, wet sounds of Sholto kissing John’s ear carried in the hushed library and Sherlock’s eyes widened at what he was witnessing. His mind went blank. He was frozen to the spot, transfixed as Sholto kissed at John’s cheek. Beneath his ear.

“James…”

“I want you.” Sholto said boldly, and John made a sound like Sholto had punched him.

“James…I can’t. I’ve- I’ve made vows to Sherlock-”

“For your _betrothal_. You're not married yet."

"That doesn't matter-"

"But it does." Sholto insisted. "Even when you're married to him, do you really think you'll be happy? I've heard how Sherlock's been raised, how all royal Omegas are raised. He'll want nothing else to do with you, and you'll be right back in the situation you're in now. And there’s only so much satisfaction your hand can provide.”

John snorted, rolling his eyes and even in the middle of the disaster he was witnessing, Sherlock’s breath caught and his stomach gave a flutter of interest at the idea of John pleasuring himself, doing to himself what Sherlock did every night in the privacy of his bedroom. John did that sort of thing. Sherlock had wondered but he hadn’t known for sure. And now he had something like proof and it was all he could think of.

Until Sholto started talking again.

“It’s just us, John, like it always was.” He smiled. “No one has to know.”

John frowned, regarding Sholto in the dark. Sholto, who leaned closer and pressed their lips together in a soft, gentle kiss like it was the most natural, easiest thing in the word. And John held still, his eyes sliding closed in enjoyment.

Sherlock’s heart broke completely.

He willed John to stop. To push Sholto away and say it’d been a mistake.

Their lips parted with a soft sucking sound. John’s eyes fluttered back open.

Time seemed to stand still. Sherlock waited for John’s rejection. He begged for it in his head- please, please, please, please- but he had a horrible feeling, rising up from deep within his chest.

John’s hand slowly slid up Sholto’s neck to tangle in his hair, tipping his head to the side, and then they were kissing again. Their breaths were heavy in the hush of the library. John’s jaw worked as he kissed Sholto, their bodies swaying together, bumping back against a bookshelf and John insinuated himself in-between Sholto's legs and-

Sherlock staggered away. His legs didn’t seem to want to work right. He felt funny. He couldn’t breathe. John was…John and Sholto were… John was…John was…

Sherlock fled the library on swift but silent feet. It was absolutely imperative that John and Sholto didn’t realize he was there. He didn’t think he could take anymore humiliation. Every time he blinked, he saw John kissing Sholto. Again and again and again.

Sherlock burst into the hallway and ran as quickly as he could on legs that were wobbly and threatening to buckle. His stomach was in painful knots and the pressure on his chest threatened to crush him. The corridors were still empty and Sherlock was grateful. He was too scattered to care where he was going, or to keep to the secret passages.

John was kissing Sholto in the library. John had secretly met Sholto in the library and called him ‘James’ and let himself be kissed and then pulled Sholto to him and kissed him back and he refused to kiss Sherlock. He and Sholto were going to sleep together. It was obvious. They were going to have sex. In the library, where John and Sherlock had spent so many afternoons together reading quietly or acting out the latest plays and laughing at each other until they couldn't breathe. Or in John's room, where John and Sherlock played chess and where Sherlock played his violin and where they took tea every afternoon. John was going to have sex with Sholto.

Sherlock's heart thumped painfully and he wondered if it would literally stop beating from the horrible agony he was feeling.

He almost wished it would.

All the promises and pretty speeches had all been lies. No one would blame John for taking a lover either. Everyone had expected him to years ago. Mycroft had cautioned Sherlock that John might. Captain Lestrade had hinted at it once or twice when John first came to Northumbria. Queen Holmes had tittered and openly surmised over who may catch John's interest. No one would care about what John was doing. No one except Sherlock and he wasn’t supposed to care. That was just the way Alphas were. He hadn’t thought John would be that way. He’d been wrong. John had just been waiting on the right person to come along.

And that person, Sherlock thought as his vision began to blur, was not _him_.

Sherlock fumbled at the doorknob to his rooms, closing and locking the door behind him, took a running leap and flung himself onto the bed, mashing his face into the pillows just as the first sob tore its way out of his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thor voice, and squint: "Is he though?"
> 
> Don't even @ me. I'm gonna fix this. When have I ever not?


	4. Chapter 4

“Please, don’t make me. Please. I can’t. Don’t make me go downstairs, please.”

“John’s family will be there. Your mother is expecting you at breakfast, dear.”

Sherlock moaned and fell back onto the bed, pulling a pillow over his face and letting out a piteous whine that sounded like a muffled “please”.

Mrs. Hudson gave him a worried look.

Sherlock’s waiting bath was still fresh, the water steaming and ready to be used, but his morning tea had gone stone cold while Mrs. Hudson cajoled, argued, pleaded, and finally ordered Prince Sherlock to get out of bed and get ready to go downstairs where the formal breakfast would be held in less than an hour for the Scottish delegation.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes.” Mrs. Hudson put her hands on her hips, irritated with these antics, her patience officially running out. Sherlock was always hard to get out of bed- he spent too much time staying up late reading under his bedcovers- but this was ridiculous. “Get out of bed, young man. This. Instant.”

The pillow fell away from Sherlock’s face. He regarded his nanny balefully.

“Mrs. Hudson. Please. I- I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I just can’t.”

“Are you sure you aren’t ill?” Mrs. Hudson had asked earlier and been told no- but Sherlock certainly looked sick. He was pale and wan, eyes red-rimmed, and his expression bleak. He’d assured her that he was fine. No, nothing was wrong.

For the life of her, Mrs. Hudson couldn’t understand what had gotten into Sherlock this morning.

Unless.

Mrs. Hudson eyed Sherlock, stepping closer to the bed. She delicately scented the air. “Sherlock. Sherlock, sweetheart, are you…?” She lowered her voice because she knew this subject always upset him. “Are you having your first heat?”

“ _No_!” Sherlock jackknifed off the bed and threw his pillow to the floor. The tips of his ears turned red. “It’s not _that_!” He shouted.

Mrs. Hudson kept herself from sagging with disappointment, but it was a near thing. The whole country was buzzing in expectation of when Sherlock would go into heat. Every pub in the capitol had large betting boards with dates marked and large wagers placed. Most Omegas went into heat when they were Sherlock’s age, if not younger, but so far Sherlock hadn’t shown any sign of heat, upcoming or otherwise. Queen Holmes was worried. Mycroft was worried. Mrs. Hudson kept it to herself but she was starting to worry too. There were already rumors that something was wrong with Sherlock and that he wouldn’t go into heat.

Mrs. Hudson dismissed those rumors. There was nothing wrong with her little boy. But she did wish he would have his first heat sooner rather than later.

“Then what’s the matter?” Whatever was wrong with Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson wanted to make it better. She’d raised him since he was a baby and when Sherlock hurt, she hurt too. She brushed Sherlock’s hair back from his forehead, wanting to soothe him, but he dodged away from her, scowling. The dismissal stung.

“Nothing is wrong.” Sherlock’s words rang untrue, his voice hollow, but Mrs. Hudson didn’t press him. She folded her hands and waited.

“I…” Sherlock wavered. “Last night, I…” He sagged, closing his eyes. “I’ll have my bath now, please.”

Mrs. Hudson knew it would be futile to keep asking. “Alright, darling. Off with those clothes then.”

She helped Sherlock into the steaming bath- for once not getting snapped at that Sherlock was too old for his nanny to help him bathe- and hurried him through his ablutions as much as she could. Sherlock silently moved as she directed him, letting her do whatever she wanted without a fuss. That, more than anything, told Mrs. Hudson that something was seriously wrong with her boy. But she bit her lip, not wanting to add to whatever was bothering him by constant needling. Sherlock would confide in her when he was ready. She would not force a confession.

Mrs. Hudson had Sherlock freshened and dressed and combed and presentable in record time, and it wasn’t until the bedroom door opened and his brother stepped through that a fanatical light animated Sherlock’s eyes again. He whirled around.

“Mycroft! Please, don’t make me go downstairs this morning! I can’t. I really and truly can’t.”

Mrs. Hudson didn’t think she’d ever seen Mycroft Holmes so startled. He stood in the doorway blinking for a full five seconds, jaw slack in surprise.

“What?” He asked, recovering fast. “Sherlock, what are you talking about?”

“This morning. The breakfast Mummy has planned for the Scottish delegation. Please, don’t make me go. Please tell her I’m ill. That I’m very, very ill and can’t leave my bed.”

Mycroft frowned at Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson could see the gears turning in his head as he tried to figure out (just like herself) what was wrong with Sherlock.

“Why don’t you want to go?” Mycroft finally asked, slowly, still trying to work out the problem. Sherlock shook his head.

“I can’t go. I just can’t. Not this morning. Tomorrow, or- or this evening, I’ll be better. I promise. This evening I’ll go down to dinner and…but this morning…I can’t…”

“Are you ill?” Mycroft’s eyes darted over Sherlock’s body and Mrs. Hudson wondered if he was considering the idea of Sherlock’s heat just as she’d done earlier. At least Mycroft was smarter than to actually ask Sherlock directly about it.

“No. No, I’m not really ill. But if you could just tell her...”

“Mummy is expecting you to be there.” It was obvious that Mycroft was reluctant to tell his little brother bad news. Mrs. Hudson knew what was coming, though. And Sherlock did too, if the queasy expression he gave his brother was any indication. “If these were any other visitors it wouldn’t matter but this is the family of your betrothed, Locky. It’s the family of your future husband and the family of the future King of Northumbria. You not being there will be seen as an insult.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, bracing for the final blow.

“You have to go.”

The hopeless misery on Sherlock’s face broke Mrs. Hudson’s heart. She wrapped her arm around her little boy’s shoulders, all of her irritation with him evaporating. She glared at Mycroft.

“If Sherlock doesn’t feel well enough then no one will expect him to be at some silly breakfast.”

“He said that he wasn’t sick and this is too important a meeting to indulge a senseless whim.” Mycroft said. “This isn’t my decision. Mummy-“

“ _John_ wouldn’t want Sherlock to go to a breakfast, no matter how important, if he didn’t feel well.” A brilliant idea took shape. Mrs. Hudson didn’t know what was wrong with Sherlock, but she was sure that no matter what it was, John could fix it. John was usually the solution to any problem that was Sherlock-related. “We’ll send a note to John and ask him to-“

“No!” Sherlock jerked away from her, panicked. “Don’t send a note to John. Don’t tell him about this. Don’t. I’ll- I’ll go downstairs. Just. Don’t tell John about this.”

Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson exchanged mystified looks.

What in the world?

“Sherlock…” Mycroft began, but Sherlock didn’t wait to hear what his brother had to say. He quickly strode from the room and, after giving Mrs. Hudson one more look- which she returned with an equally nonplussed shrug- Mycroft hurried after him.

* * *

 

Sherlock hurried downstairs, feeling as though he were marching to his doom but eager, now that he’d made up his mind, to just get it over with. The waiting for terrible things was the worst part, in his experience. He was aware of passing through hallways, of people stopping and bowing to him, and of going down staircases, his feet heavy and jarring on the velvet-covered steps. But nothing was precise. Everything was fuzzy. His mind was in a riot, conjuring up scenario after scenario of what awaited him downstairs in the opulent breakfast room of Marseille.

He would have to face John. He would have to face John and sit across the breakfast table from him like he did every morning and smile and talk and pretend as if everything was fine. And Baron James Sholto would be there. Sherlock would have to see him too.

What if he could tell that John and Sholto had had sex? What if he could smell their combined scents, mixed with the smell of coffee and tea and eggs and toast? What if there was a physical mark that everyone else could see, not just Sherlock?

Sherlock’s stomach rebelled. He stopped halfway down a staircase, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth, afraid he would be sick with shame. How was he supposed to act? What was he supposed to say? None of his upbringing, his many lessons in deportment, had prepared him for this situation.

He was woefully unprepared and, as he forced his feet to move again, he thought of how Alphas loved to mark up their Omegas in possessive displays. He’d seen Omegas in the Court, their necks littered with bite marks and angry red bruises, but he’d never given it much thought. It was a commonplace sight.

Now that he knew more about Alphas and Omegas- and what his future held with John- he’d started to consider it. Sherlock had thought it might be nice to be possessively marked by John during sexual intercourse. It would probably hurt a lot. Sherlock didn’t see how it couldn’t hurt, but when it was over he’d have visual proof that John wanted him and cared enough about him to mark him as a signal to other Alphas that Sherlock was his.

Sherlock didn’t think he could stand seeing proof that John had marked Baron Sholto’s neck like that. He couldn’t stand it.

And everyone else would see. Everyone else would _know_.

For some reason, that was almost as bad as John cheating on him: the fact that by the end of the day, everyone in the entire kingdom would know John was sleeping with someone else.

Sherlock felt a rush of sympathy for all the Omegas he’d heard of whose Alphas were cheating on them. He’d never spared them a second thought when he heard the rumors in Court, but now he wondered how they dealt with it- the rumors, the snide comments, the looks, and the upsetting knowledge that their Alphas preferred another Omega to them. After all, what sort of Omega was unable to satisfy their Alpha? A bad one, that’s who. People had always said there was something wrong with Sherlock and here was more proof. His own Alpha didn’t want him.

It was so unfair. He hadn’t even been given a _chance_ to satisfy John, Sherlock thought bitterly. He was convinced he could have done a good job of it. Even if he’d hated the sex, he thought, even if it’d been horrid and unpleasant and nothing like he imagined, he would have grit his teeth and done whatever needed doing to keep John interested.

And what if Sholto became pregnant?

The idea was too horrible to contemplate.

Sherlock had thought about it all night.

He’d laid awake, sleepless and upset, imagining John and Sholto having sex in John’s bedroom and thought about what would happen if Sholto became pregnant. After all, if John had an affair with Sholto, it was only logical that he would spend Sholto’s heats with him, and unless Sholto took precautions, that meant pregnancy. Sherlock was uncharitable enough to believe that Sholto would lie and tell John he was using precautions so John would let his guard down and Sholto could get pregnant with John’s child. A bastard heir.

It was every royal Omega’s worst nightmare.

Sherlock would have to watch a child grow up- John’s child- which John would love and dote on and probably secretly wish could ascend the throne ahead of any child he had with Sherlock. Sherlock would have to watch John give precedence to the child, and Sholto for being the father of his favorite. If Sherlock himself got pregnant (he shuddered, imagining spending a heat with John, knowing the Alpha would just be doing his royal duty- as he’d heard it called- and then go right back to Sholto) and if he survived childbirth (Sherlock imagined that John would probably wish the entire time that Sherlock would die so that he could marry Sholto and set him up in Sherlock’s place) John would probably send Sherlock away, out of sight and out of mind, to Bernicia and Deira. Sherlock would languish there, alone and unwanted, with no comfort other than his child which would only be a constant reminder of John and how he didn’t want him…

It was everything Sherlock had ever feared from his marriage, nightmarish scenarios from stories he’d heard of real-life marriages in the Court. He saw it taking place, stretching out before him like a tide of misery that he could do nothing to prevent. John had chosen Sholto. They were now all set on this course together.

Sherlock wondered how he would bear it.

A swell of voices carried up the last staircase, the Court assembled outside the breakfast room, awaiting the Queen before they could go in and be seated. Sherlock paused at the top of the stairs, out of sight around the corner, trying to breathe around the despair lodged in his chest. He wished he was still in his bedroom. He’d give anything to avoid confronting John, delaying the inevitable just a few more hours.

 “Sherlock?”

He’d almost forgotten about Mycroft, so lost in his own thoughts, but his brother had followed him the whole way, a silent companion to Sherlock’s grief. But when Sherlock turned to face him, he was appalled to see how worried Mycroft looked and he instinctively reached out and clutched at Mycroft’s sleeves. He hadn’t meant to worry his brother. Sherlock felt incredibly guilty for being so selfish.

“What is wrong this morning, Locky?” Mycroft asked, so soft and gentle, so ready to be compassionate and fix whatever was wrong, that Sherlock felt hot tears springing to his eyes. Horrified, he forced them back, swallowing around his thickening throat.

“Have you and John had a row?”

Sherlock knew he could tell Mycroft anything. His brother would never judge him, or think less of him, for what John chose to do.

“Are you stressed about meeting more members of John’s family? Is it…are you worried about someone in particular?”

Pure humiliation prevented Sherlock from telling Mycroft what he’d seen. It would be wonderful to have an ally, someone to support him and take his side against John, but it would make breakfast even worse than he expected. Mycroft would know the reason Sherlock was suffering and this was one instance that Sherlock didn’t want a comrade to share in his suffering. He wanted to wallow alone.

And it wasn’t Mycroft’s burden to bear. If only one of them could be happy, Sherlock wanted it to be Mycroft.

Then, he remembered Captain Lestrade’s abandonment of Mycroft. With a rush of misplaced fury, Sherlock hoped the Alpha fell off his horse and landed on his arse. He hoped he caught the pox from whatever Omega he took up with after giving up his brother. He hoped Captain Lestrade was never happy again and realized the prize he’d so hastily discarded.

“Nothing.” Sherlock forced a smile. It felt horrible and stretched on his face. “I’m fine, Mycroft. Really.”

“You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?”

“I know, My. But…there’s nothing wrong.” He lied. “I’m fine.”

Mycroft didn’t look convinced but he sighed, allowing Sherlock to keep his secrets. “Very well.” He took Sherlock’s hand and squeezed and Sherlock almost collapsed against him and sobbed out the whole story-

But no. He stiffened his spine. He wouldn’t make Mycroft unhappy by telling him what John had done. He would keep this to himself, no matter how much pain it caused.

“Just remember, Locky, no matter what happens…you are a Holmes.” Mycroft lifted Sherlock’s chin, giving him an encouraging smile which Sherlock returned, nodding, soaking in his brother’s love and wisdom.

He was a Holmes. Mycroft had taught Sherlock the weight of what that meant, the poise and command and respect attached to their name. Sherlock would not crumble no matter what happened, no matter what stupid Alphas did. His resolve was bolstered.

He was ready to face John.

Captain Lestrade was waiting for them at the foot of the stairs. He bowed but Mycroft swept past him without pausing. Sherlock did the same, standing with his brother in solidarity against stupid Alphas.

Sherlock’s bravado carried him across the flagstones, past the assembled crowd which bowed to he and his brother in unison, and into the breakfast room where the Queen was just being seated. He couldn’t help glancing around, searching for John against his will, and his eyes fell on the Alpha were he stood near Sherlock’s chair, waiting for him as he did every morning.

Sherlock’s steps faltered.

All of the windows were thrown wide to let in the cool morning air and sunshine beamed into the room, sparkling off the silver and throwing highlights into John’s hair. It illuminated his eyes which brightened when he saw Sherlock and he smiled, happy, no sign of remorse or guilt in his expression. He held himself easy and open, reaching for Sherlock’s hand without a shred of shame.

Sherlock felt sick.

Had he ever really known John at all? How could John act like this the morning after having sex with someone who wasn’t Sherlock? Sherlock had expected at least a little shame on John’s part. A guilty glance maybe, or an inability to meet Sherlock’s eyes. Some sign that would have shown John’s internal turmoil over what he’d done. But clearly John felt none. How could John act like this? How could John be normal, like he always was? As if everything were alright and that just hours ago he hadn’t been carnally knowing an Omega-

Maybe he’d just never cared that much for Sherlock.

The idea speared through Sherlock. He knew the truth of it. This whole time, since the day of their betrothal, John had been making the best of a bad situation. Going along to get along. John had been playing a part. He still was. Nothing had changed. He could still act like he always did because it wasn’t real.

While he thought, out of habit, Sherlock had been extending his hand to John but before their fingers touched he jerked away.

“Have you bathed this morning?” He demanded, the question coming out harsher than he meant, and John’s eyes widened. He looked at Sherlock like he was crazy. Someone in the room tittered.

“Um…yes? I mean, yes. I have bathed.”

That was a relief. Sherlock didn’t want Sholto’s lingering scent tainting his skin. He would rather John didn’t touch him, but he couldn’t think of a way to get out of the scenting and held still while John took his hand and scented at his wrist. Sherlock took his hand back as soon as he could. He resisted the urge to wipe his wrist on his trousers.

Sherlock knew that John had scented Sholto last night, but intimately. Much, much more thoroughly. Sherlock suddenly never wanted John touch him ever again.

He took his place at the table and everyone sat, servants pouring into the room with covered dishes and pots of hot coffee, tea, and chocolate. Across from him and a few seats down was Baron Sholto. When their eyes met, Baron Sholto dropped his eyes, pressing his lips together, and studied his plate as if it held the secrets of the universe. Well, Sherlock thought, at least someone has a little shame about last night.

As upset as he was, the sight of food made him nauseous. He stirred sugar into his tea and took small sips, hoping to calm his stomach enough to make it through breakfast and then he’d retreat upstairs and spend the rest of the day in his room. The entire Court was assembled, along with the Scottish delegation, and the room was packed with people all chattering and laughing. It was loud, the air filled with conversation, the clinking of cups on saucers, and forks and knives tinning against plates. The sound grated on Sherlock’s stretched nerves. He longed for the solitude of his room. He did his best to avoid looking at anyone. Giving his plate as much attention as he could, he cut his food into perfectly symmetrical bites, arranging it in an artful display which he knew wouldn’t be eaten.

After having tried for a few minutes to catch Sherlock’s eye, John finally gave up and cleared his throat. “Sherlock? Did you sleep well last night?”

Sherlock wondered if John was being deliberately cruel. He shrugged.

“Sherlock, darling.” Queen Holmes reprimanded, “answer John properly when he asks you a question.”

John rushed to defend him. “He did answer me. Really-“

“No, John. I didn’t sleep well last night.” Sherlock was suddenly angry. He didn’t need John defending him, protecting him in such a trivial way while he humiliated Sherlock by carrying on an affair with Sholto. The blood was ringing in Sherlock’s ears. His cup rattled when he sat it none-too-gently on the saucer. His hands were shaking. He wanted to hurt John.

“Oh. I’m…I’m sorry to hear that.” John said, politely puzzled. “Was something wrong?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and asked pointedly, “Did you sleep well?”

“Um. Not really, no.” John grinned ruefully, raising his cup of tea in a mock salute. “I guess it was a night for it, yeah?”

“Mm.” Sherlock nodded. “I suppose you didn’t get much sleep last night after spending so much time in the library.”

John spat out his mouthful tea.

There was a small uproar around the table. The Queen exclaimed. People cried out. Servants swooped in to clear the mess, apologizing as if it were somehow their fault. Someone laughed. There were several titters. Smiles were hidden behind napkins and people nudged each other, pointing. John fumbled with his napkin, bringing it up to wipe at his mouth and clear away the tea which had dribbled down his chin.

Sherlock smugly relished his victory.

“I beg your pardon. Excuse me.” John mumbled, blushing red, and his eyes darted around the table, looking everywhere but at Sherlock. He didn’t seem to be able to meet Sherlock’s eyes _now_.

“Are you alright, John?” Sherlock tried to sound worried. He was afraid his voice sounded too cold when Mycroft’s head came up and he frowned.

“F-fine. Fine. I’m fine.” John stammered, dabbing at his chin again. “I- I just didn’t…um.” He frowned, looking so lost that Sherlock almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

“Have I said something I oughtn’t?” Sherlock continued as innocently as possible, relentless, wanting to press his advantage now that he had one. “You didn’t want to keep it a secret that you visited the library last night…did you?”

“Uh. N-no. No. Well. I mean. I-I didn’t expect you to have known I was, um, there.” John stammered. The servants set a new plate in front of him, along with whisking his stained napkin away and placing another in his lap, and poured a fresh cup of tea. John watched their movements avidly. It seemed he still couldn’t look at Sherlock.

“I always visit the library when I have trouble sleeping.” Sherlock said. “I didn’t know that you did the same. Just think: after these four years together, when I thought we were so close, I’m still learning new things about you.”

This was fun. Sherlock had always observed the double-talk adults threw at each other but never participated before. John was staring fixedly at the tablecloth, his cheeks a dull, brick red. His jaw worked as he struggled to respond.

“I do not think that was proper, Sherlock.” Queen Holmes interjected. “You and John alone together in a darkened library while everyone else was abed? Where was Mrs. Hudson? Where was Mike Stamford?”

“Oh, John and I weren’t alone together, Mummy.” Sherlock chirped, and across the table John went very, very still. It reminded Sherlock of a mouse when it fears the approach of a cat. Sherlock loved being the proverbial cat. It was much better than the alternative.

“You weren’t?”

“No. I saw John in the library, but John didn’t even know I was there. He was busy doing _other_ things. We didn’t even say a word to each other. So, you see? Nothing improper happened between me and John.” Sherlock gave his mother an innocent smile which she fell for, relaxing in the light of Sherlock’s apparent innocence. She never thought to question what her youngest was telling her.

“Nevertheless, John.” She said, turning to the Alpha. “You should be more careful where you are about during the night. There are eyes all over the castle and it is not a good look for you to be seen alone in a darkened room with your unwed Omega.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. You’re absolutely right.” John murmured. He looked eager for breakfast to be over but Sherlock wasn’t done yet.

“Did you find something in the library to take back to your room and put you at ease, John? I know the arrival of the Scottish delegates yesterday made you very troubled- which is obviously the reason you were up so late in the library- and I suppose they kept you…occupied…unable to sleep.”

John gave him a searching look, his brows lowered. Sherlock beamed back at him. Butter wouldn’t have melted in his mouth.

“No…I didn’t find anything to take back to my room.” He replied slowly and Sherlock raised a skeptical eyebrow. John flushed all over again.

“It is so sweet of you to take such an interest in your Alpha’s rest, darling.” Queen Holmes praised, patting at Sherlock’s cheek. “Sherlock is an adoring Omega,” She said to the others assembled at their table, “and has always taken a great interest in any of John’s pursuits. He will be the perfect Omega mate.”

“I am far from perfect, to which I’m sure John can attest.” Sherlock said sweetly, the words underlain and laced with venom. John’s eyes met his briefly before darting away again.

Sherlock didn’t listen to the rest of the conversation. He was riding the waves of triumph, of having humiliated John (even if only the two of them knew about it) and letting John know that he wasn’t a wilting flower to be pushed around. He pointedly ignored the presence of Sholto. The Omega was beneath his dignity to acknowledge. Sherlock even managed to eat a few bites of food while John remained subdued across from him, his plate of food untouched, fiddling with his utensils and shooting Sherlock covert looks when the others were too busy to notice.

When Queen Holmes stood, Sherlock rose with her, feeling like a conqueror. He worried that John would try and waylay him outside the breakfast room as everyone dispersed to the day’s activities, but he didn’t see the Alpha at all. It was disappointing. Sherlock didn’t want to talk to John, but he did want John to beg his forgiveness.

Disgruntled, Sherlock made his way to the stables and saddled his horse. A ride around the grounds was what he needed to clear his head and give him time to think of other ways to humiliate John whenever he saw him. John may choose to fuck other Omegas, but Sherlock would have vengeance for it.

It was as Sherlock was trying to tighten the girth strap for the fifth time, his hands still rather shaky from his daring at breakfast, that he felt someone behind him. He whirled- excitedly expecting to see John staring contritely at him and ready to grovel for forgiveness.

Sherlock’s face fell.

It wasn’t John. It was Captain Lestrade.

“Here. Let me. I can’t stand to watch you work at that anymore.” Captain Lestrade nodded to the girth strap and took the leather from Sherlock. He started tightening them beneath the horse’s belly.

Sherlock elbowed him and, while Captain Lestrade was still stunned, yanked the straps back.

“I do not accept help from people who have broken my brother’s heart.” He said icily, sticking his nose in the air…then having the rethink that gesture when he ducked back down to fiddle with the strap. Captain Lestrade gaped at him.

“What are you talking about?”

Sherlock had planned not to say anything else. Captain Lestrade was beneath his dignity to notice too. But the incomprehension in Captain Lestrade’s voice- which Sherlock knew was contrived- was too much for his dignity to withstand.

“You know what I’m talking about.” He hissed, making sure they were relatively alone in the stables. There was a group of people further down but they were laughing and talking and not paying them any attention. “Mycroft told me all about it. Well, I’ll have you know,” Sherlock continued, venting all his ire at stupid Alphas who only thought with their stupid, disgusting knots, “that you’ll never find anyone else better than my brother but he could find 40 Alphas better than you and who wouldn’t leave him just because he couldn’t…because he can’t,” Sherlock lowered his voice to a mere breath of sound, “bond with them. They wouldn’t care,” he said, raising his voice again, “because Mycroft is amazing and you’ll never find anyone better than him-“

“You already said that,” Captain Lestrade pointed out, crossing his arms and looking very unimpressed with Sherlock’s tirade.

“It bears repeating.” Sherlock sniffed. “Leaving Mycroft will be the worst mistake you’ll ever make in your life-“

“So he told you I’ve left him?”

“- and he won’t…yes. Yes, he did.” Sherlock scowled. Gods, was Captain Lestrade really this slow? How did Mycroft handle it?

Captain Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Gods save me from ignorant, dramatic Holmes.”

Sherlock took offense at that. He opened his mouth, ready to start again, but before he could get a word out, Captain Lestrade walked away.

* * *

 

Mycroft looked up at the quick series of raps on his office door, scowling at being interrupted. Papers were spread out over his desk, drafts of treaties and trade agreements with Scotland which had been sent with the delegation, and while some of them were pointless, a few held actual interest. He needed to read them, figure out the traps hidden in each, and then draft better versions that favored Northumbria instead of King Watson.

He was still mentally fixed on the papers when the door swung open and, at the sight of his Captain, his entire thought process derailed with a spectacular shriek. Mycroft dropped his eyes back to the papers and did his best to look bored.

“Captain. Was there something you needed?” Mycroft made a great show of dipping his quill into a pot of ink and tapping it against the side before beginning to write. “As you can see, I’m very busy, but perhaps-“

“Don’t you ‘Captain’ me, Mycroft.” Captain Lestrade growled, locking the door and then fixing Mycroft with a very angry glare. Mycroft’s mouth snapped shut.

“I beg your pardon?” He said in the iciest tone he could manage but Gregory didn’t appear daunted.

 “Yes, you may.” Gregory said. “And while you’re at it, you can tell me why in the gods name you think I left you.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. He deliberately placed his quill back in its stand and recapped the pot of ink all while trying to get his stupid, traitorous heart- which had taken a great leap at the implication Gregory may not have left him- back under control. “Have you been talking to Sherlock?”

“Why do you think I left you?” Gregory was dogged in his determination to get an answer. Mycroft didn’t have any to give except the obvious.

“Because you left me.”

“Because I left you.” Gregory repeated in a disbelieving voice. He made it sound like the most ridiculous thing Mycroft could have said. Mycroft bristled.

“Yes, you left. We had a fight and you left and I’ve not had a single word from you since that night. I could only assume that meant your regard for me had run its natural course and I would have been a fool to think otherwise.”

“I was angry!” Gregory shouted, then froze, darting a quick look at the closed door. When he spoke again, it was in hushed, but no less angry, tones. “I told you, the man I’ve been in love with for the last four years, that I loved you and wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. Your response was to tell me to go and find another Omega.”

Well, when Gregory put it that way Mycroft sounded terrible. But that wasn’t the way things had happened. Not really.

Not entirely.

“You said you wanted to bond with me.”

“Yes.” Gregory didn’t look abashed at the admission. It was Mycroft who had to look away, chagrined over the entire situation.

“Gregory…I never expected to ever be in a situation where an Alpha would confess so…so ardently that they wanted to bond with me and so perhaps I handled the situation with you…wrong. There were many ways I could have refused you that weren’t so appalling.” Mycroft pressed his lips together. “But I only meant that…while I cannot bond with you- no matter how much I may wish to-“

“You do?” Gregory seemed so surprised that Mycroft’s heart broke all over again.

“Yes, Gregory. Of course I want to bond with you.”

Gregory crossed the room and ducked behind the desk, going to his knees in front of Mycroft. Mycroft moved forward, bracketing the Alpha with his knees and pulling him as close as possible, aching for contact after a long week apart.

“Of course I want to bond with you. I love you.”

Gregory buried his face in Mycroft’s chest, taking a few ragged breaths while Mycroft simply breathed in the Alpha’s scent, nuzzling his nose through Gregory’s hair.

“I love you.” The confession was muffled by Mycroft’s chest, but he felt the rumble of it through his entire body. The first words that sprang to his lips were skeptical denials, questioning how an Alpha as wonderful and handsome as Gregory Lestrade would want a frigid, troublesome Omega like himself…but Mycroft forced those words away. Now was not the time for that.

“I know you do.” Mycroft said. “I love you too, Gregory. And I want to bond with you, but…

Gregory raised his head. He pressed his lips to Mycroft’s, halting his stilted words. “I know.”

“I really do want to bond with you.” Mycroft insisted, desperate for Gregory to understand, but more kisses silenced him again and then he was too preoccupied with trying to get as close to Gregory as possible, moaning softly when he felt the hard ridge of his cock pressing against him, than doing any convincing.

“I understand.” Gregory husked, tilting Mycroft’s head to the side and sucking kisses along his jawline. “I do. I just thought you didn’t want to bond with me at all.”

“No- that’s not it-“ Mycroft tried, but Gregory ran his fingers over the front of his trousers where his own cock was hardening and promptly forgot what he’d been trying to say.

“You don’t have to explain. I understand. It’s just a relief to know that it’s something you want…even if we can’t ever…”

Gregory’s fingers were unlacing the front of Mycroft’s trousers, peeling the fabric down over his hips, and Mycroft was clutching at him tighter and tighter, locking his legs around Gregory’s hips even though they were both still clothed.

Mycroft scowled. That needed to be fixed immediately. He reached for Gregory’s own trousers, fumbling at the flies, but then Gregory stood up, yanking at the fabric himself and the next minute was a flurry of undressing and silent cursing as they got tangled up-

Until they were finally naked from the waist down and Gregory went to sweep the papers on Mycroft’s desk to the side-

“No!” Mycroft admonished. “Those papers are important.” He added apologetically when Gregory gave him an incredulous look.

“Then here.” Gregory reversed their positions and seated himself in Mycroft’s chair, pulling the Omega to straddle him with one knee to either side of Gregory’s hips. Mycroft bit his lip, arching to get in the right position, and quickly buried his face in Gregory’s neck when he felt the first warm nudge of his cock against his opening.

They both gasped at the initial stretch, the long, slow slide of Gregory’s cock inside him until he was all the way in, pulsing in time to the frantic beating of his heart, and Mycroft raised his head, giving Gregory a very dazed look. Gregory’s hands were suddenly hard at Mycroft’s hips, tugging Mycroft up and then back down on his cock, and Mycroft shuddered, doing his best to keep up with the quick pace, swiveling his hips to get the right angle so Gregory’s cock brushed against his prostate with every thrust.

“Mycroft.” Gregory threaded his fingers through Mycroft’s hair and pulled, forcing him into a kiss so heated Mycroft felt his toes curl, his cock already leaking a wet patch against the front of Gregory’s tunic and he wondered how the Alpha would explain that but-…there were more important things to be concerned about. Like the way Gregory’s tongue stroked against his own, the way his cock stretched him, filled him up, causing Mycroft to stifle moans of pleasure with each grind.

It was all so wonderful. Tears sprung to Mycroft’s eyes. He’d thought he’d never get to have this again. He thought that he’d ruined everything with Gregory. But he hadn’t. Gregory was here. They were making love again. Gregory still loved him even after Mycroft had said such ugly things.

“I’m so sorry.” Mycroft choked, and Gregory hushed him, kissing at the little tears which escaped from the corners of his eyes. The agitated thrusts slowed, turned gentler, rocking Mycroft in the chair, but Gregory didn’t seem to be able to stop entirely. He pressed Mycroft down on his cock, his breath catching, and cupped Mycroft’s face in his hands.

“Don’t, love. Sshh, don’t. It’s fine. You’re fine. Look. Mycroft. I’m going to get angry with you. I’m going to get so angry with you that I won’t want to see you for a few days until I’ve had time to think and calm down.” Gregory’s voice shook and he reached a hand between them to grasp at Mycroft’s cock, jerking at it while he talked. “But that doesn’t mean I have left you…or plan to leave you…or even want to leave you…I love you. If you’d agreed to bond with me during your next heat, I wouldn’t hesitate a second. And I know that won’t happen. I know why. But Mycroft…I’m ready to spend the rest of my life with you, tied to you. Nothing is going to change that. No matter how much of an arse you act.”

Mycroft kissed him. He had to. It was an overwhelming compulsion. But the kiss seemed to snap what little control Gregory had managed and he growled against Mycroft’s lips, grasping at Mycroft and unexpectedly they were up and out of the chair and Mycroft was being lifted and lowered to the soft, rich carpet. He wrapped his legs around Gregory’s hips properly, and then Gregory was thrusting back inside with a relieved moan.

Gregory pounded into him, curling his hands around Mycroft’s shoulders to keep him from being jolted and shifted up the carpet and from getting rug burns in the process. Mycroft was grateful for that, but also because it meant he got every inch of Gregory’s cock, over and over, and he barely was able to tell Gregory before he was coming, his watery ejaculate arching between them and spattering over his own tunic. Gregory dropped to his elbows, grinding himself into Mycroft a few more times before stilling and harshly panting his way through his own orgasm.

Mycroft let his legs fall to the side, his thighs hurting from the stressful position, and Gregory pulled out and moved to the side to lay beside him when he was able. He took Mycroft’s hand. They were both sweaty and gross but Mycroft clung tightly to Gregory, not wanting to ever let go.

“I’ll always love you, Mycroft. Even if we never bond our whole lives…I will still love you.”

Mycroft gave a very watery sigh. He couldn’t say anything for a long moment and when he was finally able, all he could get out was, “Oh, Gregory.”


End file.
